m 


13 


*** 


4 


STORY 


OF 


A  MINE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
THE  HEARST  CORPORATION 


\9. 


f 


BRET  HARTE'S  WRITINGS. 


Echoes  of  the  Foot-Hills,    i  vol.    i6mo  .    .    .     $1.50 

Poems,    i  vol.    i6mo 1.50 

East  and  West  Poems,    i  vol.    i6mo 1.50 

Poetical  Works.  Diamond  Edition,  Uniform  with 
the  Diamond  TENNYSON,  LONGFELLOW,  WHITTIER, 
LOWELL,  etc i.oo 

Poetical  Works.  Red-Line  Edition.  Illustrated. 
Small  4to.  Uniform  with  the  Red-Line  TENNYSON, 
LONGFELLOW,  WHITTIER,  LOWELL,  etc.  Cloth, 
full  gilt 3.50 

Tales  of  the  Argonauts,  and  other  Stories,    i  vol. 

i6mo 1.50 

The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  other  Sketches. 

i  vol.     i6mo 1.50 

Illustrated  Edition.     Large  4to 8.00 

Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands,  and  other  Sketches,  i  vol. 

i6mo      .     .     .  - 1.50 

Condensed  Novels.     Revised  and  enlarged  edition. 

Illustrated 1.50 

"  His  peculiar  merit  is  that  he  has  reproduced  familiar  forms  of  life 
in  phases  which  we  have  all  seen,  but  which  no  one  has  ever  before 
painted  ;  that  he  has  caught  the  gleam  of  poetic  light  which  irradiates 
at  moments  common  and  vulgar  scenes,  and  detected  elements  of 
beauty  which  lurk  beneath  the  coarser  features  of  American  life,  — 
beauty  which  we  have  felt  a  hundred  times,  but  never  learned  to  ex 
press  in  words."— New  York  Tribune. 


%*  For  sale  by  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO., 

PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE. 


BRET    IIARTE. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

Cije  fttteiUe  press,  Cambridge. 
1878. 


COPYKIGHT,  1877,  BY  BRET  HAUTE. 


All  rights  reserved. 


PRINTED  FROM  THE  BAILEY  COMBINATION  TYPE. 

"W.  J.  SCHOFIELD,  105  SUMMER  STREET,  BOSTON. 


To 

UDO  BRACHVOGEL,  Esq., 

Whose  clever  translations  of  my  writings  have  helped 
to  introduce  me  to  the  favor  of  his  countrymen,  both 
here  and  in  Germany,  this  little  volume  is  heartily 
dedicated. 

BRET  HAUTE. 

New  York,  December,  1S77. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  MINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHO      SOUGHT     IT. 

It  was  a  steep  trail  leading  over  the  Monterey  Coast 
Range.  Concho  was  very  tired,  Concho  was  very 
dusty,  Concho  was  very  much  disgusted.  To  Concho's 
mind  there  was  but  one  relief  for  these  insurmount 
able  difficulties,  and  that  lay  in  a  leathern  bottle  slung 
over  the  machiUas  of  his  saddle.  Concho  raised  the 
bottle  to  his  lips,  took  a  long  draught,  made  a  wry 
face,  and  ejaculated : 

"Carajo!" 

It  appeared  that  the  bottle  did  not  contain  aguar 
diente,  but  had  lately  been  filled  in  a  tavern  near 
Tres  Pinos  by  an  Irishman  who  sold  bad  American 
whisky  under  that  pleasing  Castilian  title.  Never 
theless  Concho  had  already  nearly  emptied  the  bottle, 
and  it  fell  back  against  the  saddle  as  yellow  and  flac 
cid  as  his  own  cheeks.  Thus  reinforced  Concho  turned 
i 


2  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

to  look  at  the  valley  behind  him,  from  which  he  had 
climbed  since  noon.  It  was  a  sterile  waste  bordered 
here  and  there  by  arable  fringes  and  vcddas  of  meadow 
land,  but  in  the  main  dusty,  dry,  and  forbidding.  His 
eye  rested  for  a  moment  on  a  low  white  cloud  line  on 
the  eastern  horizon,  but  so  mocking  and  unsubstantial 
that  it  seemed  to  come  and  go  as  he  gazed.  Concho 
struck  his  forehead  and  winked  his  hot  eyelids.  Was 
it  the  Sierras  or  the  cursed  American  whisky  ? 

Again  he  recommenced  the  ascent.  At  times  the 
half-worn,  half-visible  trail  became  utterly  lost  in  the 
bare  black  out-crop  of  the  ridge,  but  his  sagacious 
mule  soon  found  it  again,  until,  stepping  upon  a  loose 
boulder,  she  slipped  and  fell.  In  vain  Concho  tried 
to  lift  her  from  out  the  ruin  of  camp  kettles,  prospect 
ing  pans,  and  picks ;  she  remained  quietly  recumbent, 
occasionally  raising  her  head  as  if  to  contemplatively 
glance  over  the  arid  plain  below.  Then  he  had  recourse 
to  useless  blows.  Then  he  essayed  profanity  of  a  secu 
lar  kind,  such  as  "Assassin,"  "  Thief,"  "  Beast  with 
a  pig's  head,"  "  Food  for  the  Bull's  Horns,"  but  with 
no  effect. 

Then  he  had  recourse  to  the  curse  ecclesiastic  : 
"Ah,  Judas  Iscariot !  is  it  thus,  renegade  and  trai 
tor,  thou  leavest  me,  thy  master,  a  league  from  camp 
and  supper  waiting?     Stealer  of  the  Sacrament,  get 
up!" 


The  /Story  of  a  Mine.  3 

Still  no  effect.  Concho  began  to  feel  uneasy ;  never 
before  had  a  mule  of  pious  lineage  failed  to  respond 
to  tliis  kind  of  exhortation.  He  made  one  more  des 
perate  attempt: 

"  Ah,  defiler  of  the  altar !  lie  not  there  !  Look ! " 
he  threw  his  hand  into  the  air,  extending  the  fingers 
suddenly.  "  Behold,  fiend !  I  exorcise  thee !  Ha  ! 
tremblest !  Look  but  a  little  now, —  see !  Apostate  ! 
I  —  I  —  excommunicate  thee, —  Mula  !  " 

"What  are  you  kicking  up  such  a  devil  of  row 
down  there  for  ?  "  said  a  gruff  voice  from  the  rocks 
above. 

Concho  shuddered.  Could  it  be  that  the  devil  was 
really  going  to  fly  away  with  his  mule.  He  dared  not 
look  up. 

"Come  now,"  continued  the  voice,  "you  just  let 

up  on  that  mule,  you  d d  old  Greaser.  Don't 

you  see  she  's  slipped  her  shoulder?  " 

Alarmed  as  Concho  was  at  the  information,  he  could 
not  help  feeling  to  a  certain  extent  relieved.  She  was 
lamed,  but  had  not  lost  her  standing  as  a  good  Cath 
olic.  v  ' 

He  ventured  to  lift  his  eyes.  A  stranger  —  an 
Americano  from  his  dress  and  accent  —  was  descend 
ing  the  rocks  toward  him.  He  was  a  slight-built  man 
with  a  dark,  smooth  face,  that  would  have  been  quite 
commonplace  and  inexpressive  but  for  his  left  eye,  in 


4  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

which  all  that  was  villainous  in  him  apparently  cen 
tered.  Shut  that  eye,  and  you  had  the  features  and 
expression  of  an  ordinary  man;  cover  up  those  feat 
ures,  and  the  eye  shone  out  like  Eblis's  own.  Nature 
had  apparently  observed  this  too,  and  had,  by  a  paraly 
sis  of  the  nerve,  ironically  dropped  the  corner  of  the 
upper  lid  over  it  like  a  curtain,  laughed  at  her  handi 
work,  and  turned  him  loose  to  prey  upon  a  credulous 
world. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  said  the  stranger 
after  he  had  assisted  Concho  in  bringing  the  mule  to 
her  feet,  and  a  helpless  halt. 

"  Prospecting,  Senor." 

The  stranger  turned  his  respectable  right  eye  toward 
Concho,  while  his  left  looked  unutterable  scorn  and 
wickedness  over  the  landscape. 

"  Prospecting,  what  for  ?  " 

"  Gold  and  silver,  Senor, — yet  for  silver  most." 

"Alone?" 

"  Of  us  there  are  four." 

The  stranger  looked  around. 

"In  camp, a  league  beyond,"  explained  the 

Mexican. 

"Found  anything?" 

"Of  this  —  much."  Concho  took  from  his  saddle 
bags  a  lump  of  greyish  iron  ore,  studded  here  and 
there  with  star  points  of  pyrites.  The  stranger  said 
nothing,  but  his  eye  looked  a  diabolical  suggestion. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  5 

"  You  are  lucky,  friend  Greaser." 

"Eh?" 

"  It  is  silver." 

"  How  know  you  this  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  business.    I  'm  a  metallurgist." 

"And  you  can  say  what  shall  be  silver  and  what  is 
not." 

"Yes, —  see  here!"  The  stranger  took  from  his 
saddle  bags  a  little  leather  case  containing,  some  half 
dozen  phials.  One,  enwrapped  in  dark-blue  paper, 
he  held  up  to  Concho. 

"This  contains  a  preparation  of  silver." 

Concho's  eyes  sparkled,  but  he  looked  doubtingly 
at  the  stranger. 

"  Get  me  some  water  in  your  pan." 

Concho  emptied  his  water  bottle  in  his  prospecting 
pan  and  handed  it  to  the  stranger.  He  dipped  a  dried 
blade  of  grass  in  the  bottle  and  then  let  a  drop  fall  from 
its  tip  in  the  water.  The  water  remained  unchanged. 

"  Now  throw  a  little  salt  in  the  water,"  said  the 
stranger. 

Concho  did  so.  Instantly  a  white  film  appeared 
on  the  surface,  and  presently  the  whole  mass  assumed 
a  milky  hue. 

Concho  crossed  himself  hastily,  "  Mother  of  God, 
it  is  magic !  " 

"  It  is  chloride  of  silver,  you  darned  fool." 


6  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Not  content  with  this  cheap  experiment,  the  stranger 
then  took  Concho's  breath  away  by  reddening  some 
litmus  paper  with  the  nitrate,  and  then  completely 
knocked  over  the  simple  Mexican  by  restoring  its 
color  by  dipping  it  in  the  salt  water. 

"  You  shall  try  me  this  "  said  Concho,  offering  his 
iron  ore  to  the  stranger;  —  "you  shall  use  the  silver 
and  the  salt." 

"Not  so  fast  my  friend,"  answered  the  stranger; 
"  in  the  first  place  this  ore  must  be  melted,  and  then  a 
chip  taken  and  put  in  shape  like  this, —  and  that  is 
worth  something,  my  Greaser  cherub.  No,  sir,  a  man 
do  n't  spend  all  his  youth  at  Freiburg  and  Heidelburg 
to  throw  away  his  science  gratuitously  on  the  first 
Greaser  he  meets." 

"It  will  cost — eh  —  how  much?"  said  the  Mexi 
can  eagerly. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  it  would  take  about  a  hundred 
dollars  and  expenses  to  —  to  —  find  silver  in  that  ore. 
But  once  you  've  got  it  there  —  you  're  all  right  for 
tons  of  it." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  the  now  excited  Mexican. 
"  You  shall  have  it  of  us, —  the  four!  You  shall  come 
to  our  camp  and  shall  melt  it, —  and  show  the  silver, 
and  —  enough!  Come!"  and  in  his  feverishncss  he 
clutched  the  hand  of  his  companion  as  if  to  lead  him 
forth  at  once. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  7 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  mule  ?  "  said 
the  stranger. 

"True,  Holy  Mother, —  what,  indeed?" 

"  Look  yer,"  said  the  stranger,  with  a  grim  smile, 
"she  won't  stray  far,  I'll  be  bound.  I've  an  extra 
pack  mule  above  here ;  you  can  ride  on  her,  and  lead 
me  into  camp,  and  tomorrow  come  back  for  your 
beast." 

Poor  honest  Concho's  heart  sickened  at  the  pros 
pect  of  leaving  behind  the  tired  servant  he  had  objur 
gated  so  strongly  a  moment  before,  but  the  love  of 
gold  was  uppermost.  "  I  will  come  back  to  thee,  little 
one,  tomorrow,  a  rich  man.  Meanwhile,  wait  thou 
here,  patient  one, —  Adios! — thou  smallest  of  mules, 
—Adios!" 

And,  seizing  the  stranger's  hand,  he  clambered  up 
the  rocky  ledge  until  they  reached  the  summit.  Then 
the  stranger  turned  and  gave  one  sweep  of  his  malevo 
lent  eye  over  the  valley. 

Wherefore,  in  after  years,  when  their  story  was 
related,  with  the  devotion  of  true  Catholic  pioneers, 
they  named  the  mountain  lLa  Canada  de  la  Visita 
tion  del  Diablo?  'The  Gulch  of  the  Visitation  of 
the  Devil,'  the  same  being  now  the  boundary  lines  of 
one  of  the  famous  Mexican  land  grants. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHO     FOUND     IT. 

Conclio  was  so  impatient  to  reach  the  camp  and 
deliver  his  good  news  to  his  companions  that  more  than 
once  the  stranger  was  obliged  to  command  him  to 
slacken  his  pace.  "Is  it  not  enough,  you  infernal 
Greaser,  that  you  lame  your  own  mule,  but  you  must 
try  your  hand  on  mine  ?  Or  am  I  to  put  Jinny  down 
among  the  expenses  ?"  he  added  with  a  grin  and  a 
slight  lifting  of  his  baleful  eyelid. 

When  they  had  ridden  a  mile  along  the  ridge,  they 
began  to  descend  again  toward  the  valley.  Vegeta 
tion  now  sparingly  bordered  the  trail,  clumps  of  che- 
misal,  an  occasional  manzanita  bush,  and  one  or  two 
dwarfed  '  buckeyes '  rooted  their  way  between  the 
interstices  of  the  black-grey  rock.  Now  and  then,  in 
crossing  some  dry  gully,  worn  by  the  overflow  of  win 
ter  torrents  from  above,  the  greyish  rock  gloom  was 
relieved  by  dull  red  and  brown  masses  of  color,  and 
almost  every  overhanging  rock  bore  the  mark  of  a 
miner's  pick.  Presently,  as  they  rounded  the  curv- 


The  Stor'y  of  a  Mine.  9 

ing  flank  of  the  mountain,  from  a  rocky  bench  below 
them,  a  thin  ghost-like  stream  of  smoke  seemed  to  be 
steadily  drawn  by  invisible  hands  into  the  invisible 
ether.  "It  is  the  camp,"  said  Concho,  gleefully;  "I 
will  myself  forward  to  prepare  them  for  the  stranger," 
and  before  his  companion  could  detain  liim,  he  had 
disappeared  at  a  sharp  canter  around  the  curve  of  the 
trail. 

Left  to  himself,  the  stranger  took  a  more  leisurely 
pace,  which  left  him  ample  time  for  reflection.  Scamp 
as  lie  was,  there  was  something  in  the  simple  credulity 
of  poor  Concho  that  made  him  uneasy.  Not  that  his 
moral  consciousness  was  touched,  but  he  feared  that 
Concho's  companions  might,  knowing  Concho's  sim 
plicity,  instantly  suspect  him  of  trading  upon  it.  He 
rode  on  in  a  deep  study.  Was  he  reviewing  his  past 
life  ?  A  vagabond  by  birth  and  education,  a  swindler 
by  profession,  an  outcast  by  reputation,  without  abso 
lutely  turning  his  back  upon  respectability,  he  had 
trembled  on  the  perilous  edge  of  criminality  ever  since 
his  boyhood.  He  did  not  scruple  to  cheat  these  Mexi 
cans, —  they  were  a  degraded  race, —  and  for  a  moment 
he  felt  almost  an  accredited  agent  of  progress  and 
civilization.  We  never  really  understand  the  mean 
ing  of  enlightenment  until  we  begin  to  use  it  aggress 
ively. 

A  few  paces  further  on  four  figures  appeared  in  the 


10  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

now  gathering  darkness  of  the  trail.  The  stranger 
quickly  recognized  the  beaming  smile  of  Concho,  fore 
most  of  the  party.  A  quick  glance  at  the  faces  of 
the  others  satisfied  him  that  while  they  lacked  Concho's 
good  humor,  they  certainly  did  not  surpass  him  in 
intellect.  ' Pedro '  was  a  stout  vaquero.  'Manuel' 
was  a  slim  half-breed  and  ex-convert  of  the  Mission 
of  San  Carmcl,  and  '  Miguel '  a  recent  butcher  of 
Monterey.  Under  the  benign  influences  of  Concho 
that  suspicion  with  which  the  ignorant  regard  strangers 
died  away,  and  the  whole  party  escorted  the  stranger 
—  who  had  given  his  name  as  Mr.  Joseph  Wiles  — 
to  their  camp-fire.  So  anxious  were  they  to  begin 
then*  experiments  that  even  the  instincts  of  hospitality 
were  forgotten,  and  it  was  not  until  Mr.  Wiles  —  now 
known  as  '  Don  Jose  '  —  sharply  reminded  them  that 
he  wanted  some  '  grub,'  that  they  came  to  their  senses. 
When  the  frugal  meal  of  tortillas,  frijoles,  salt  pork, 
and  chocolate  was  over,  an  oven  was  built  of  the  dark- 
red  rock  brought  from  the  ledge  before  them,  and  an 
earthenware  jar,  glazed  by  some  peculiar  local  process, 
tightly  fitted  over  it,  and  packed  with  clay  and  sods. 
A  fire  was  speedily  built  of  pine  boughs  continually 
brought  from  a  wooded  ravine  below,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  furnace  was  in  full  blast.  Mr.  Wiles 
did  not  participate  in  these  active  preparations,  except 
to  give  occasional  directions  between  his  teeth,  which 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  11 

were  contemplatively  fixed  over  a  clay  pipe  as  he  lay 
comfortably  on  his  back  on  the  ground.  Whatever 
enjoyment  the  rascal  may  have  had  in  their  useless 
labors  he  did  not  show  it,  but  it  was  observed  that  his 
left  eye  often  followed  the  broad  figure  of  the  ex- 
vacpiero,  Pedro,  and  often  dwelt  on  that  worthy's  beet 
ling  brows  and  half-savage  face.  Meeting  that  bale 
ful  glance  once,  Pedro  growled  out  an  oath,  but  could 
not  resist  a  hideous  fascination  that  caused  him  again 
and  again  to  seek  it. 

The  scene  was  weird  enough  without  Wiles's  eye  to 
add  to  its  wild  picturesqucness.  The  mountain  tow 
ered  above, —  a  heavy  Ilembrandtish  mass  of  black 
shadow, —  sharply  cut  here  and  there  against  a  sky  so 
inconceivably  remote  that  the  world-sick  soul  must 
have  despaired  of  ever  reaching  so  far,  or  of  climbing 
its  steel-blue  walls.  The  stars  were  large,  keen,  and 
brilliant,  but  cold  and  steadfast.  They  did  not  dance 
nor  twinkle  in  their  adamantine  setting.  The  furnace 
fire  painted  the  faces  of  the  men  an  Indian  red,  glanced 
on  brightly  colored  blanket  and  serapt,  but  was  event 
ually  caught  and  absorbed  in  the  waiting  shadows  of 
the  black  mountain,  scarcely  twenty  feet  from  the  fur 
nace  door.  The  low,  half-sung,  half-whispered  foreign 
speech  of  the  group,  the  roaring  of  the  furnace,  and 
the  quick,  sharp  yelp  of  a  coyote  on  the  plain  below 
were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  awful  silence  of 
the  hills. 


12  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  it  was  announced  that  the 
ore  had  fused.  And  it  was  high  time,  for  the  pot 
was  slowly  sinking  into  the  fast-crumbling  oven.  Con- 
cho  uttered  a  jubilant  "  God  and  Liberty,"  but  Don 
Jose  Wiles  bade  him  be  silent  and  bring  stakes  to 
support  the  pot.  Then  Don  Jose  bent  over  the  seeth 
ing  mass.  It  was  for  a  moment  only.  But  in  that 
moment  this  accomplished  metallurgist,  Mr.  Joseph 
Wiles,  had  quietly  dropped  a  silver  half  dollar  into 
the  pot! 

Then  he  charged  them  to  keep  up  the  fires  and  went 
to  sleep  —  all  but  one  eye. 

Dawn  came  with  dull  beacon  fires  on  the  near  hill 
tops,  and,  far  in  the  East,  roses  over  the  Sierran  snow. 
Birds  twittering  in  the  alder  fringes  a  mile  below,  and 
the  creaking  of  wagon  wheels, —  the  wagon  itself  a 
mere  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distant  road, —  were  heard  dis 
tinctly.  Then  the  melting  pot  was  solemnly  broken 
by  Don  Jose,  and  the  glowing  incandescent  mass 
turned  into  the  road  to  cool. 

And  then  the  metallurgist  chipped  a  small  frag 
ment  from  the  mass  and  pounded  it,  and  chipped 
another  smaller  piece  and  pounded  that,  and  then  sub 
jected  it  to  acid,  and  then  treated  it  to  a  salt  bath  which 
became  at  once  milky, —  and  at  last  produced  a  white 
something, — mirabile  dictuf  —  two  cents'  worth  of 
silver ! 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  13 

Concho  shouted  with  joy ;  the  rest  gazed  at  each 
other  doubtingly  and  distrustfully;  companions  in 
poverty,  they  began  to  diverge  and  suspect  each  other 
in  prosperity.  Wiles's  left  eye  glanced  ironically  from 
the  one  to  the  other. 

"Here  is  the  hundred  dollars,  Don  Jose,"  said 
Pedro,  handing  the  gold  to  Wiles  with  a  decidedly 
brusque  intimation  that  the  services  and  presence  of  a 
stranger  were  no  longer  required. 

Wiles  took  the  money  with  a  gracious  smile  and  a 
wink  that  sent  Pedro's  heart  into  his  boots,  and  was 
turning  away,  when  a  cry  from  Manuel  stopped  him. 
"The  pot, —  the  pot, — it  has  leaked!  look!  behold! 
see!" 

He  had  been  cleaning  away  the  crumbled  fragments 
of  the  furnace  to  get  ready  for  breakfast,  and  had  dis 
closed  a  shining  pool  of  quicksilver! 

Wiles  started,  cast  a  rapid  glance  around  the  group, 
saw  in  a  flash  that  the  metal  was  unknown  to  them, — 
and  then  said  quietly : 

"  It  is  not  silver." 

"  Pardon,  Senor,  it  is,  and  still  molten." 

Wiles  stooped  and  ran  his  fingers  through  the  shin 
ing  metal. 

"  Mother  of  God, — what  is  it  then  ?  —  magic  ?  " 

"No,  only  base  metal."  But  here,  Concho,  embold 
ened  by  Wiles's  experiment,  attempted  to  seize  a  hand- 


14  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

ful  of  the  glistening  mass,  that  instantly  broke  through 
his  fingers  in  a  thousand  tiny  spherules,  and  even  sent 
a  few  globules  up  his  shirt  sleeves,  until  he  danced 
around  in  mingled  fear  and  childish  pleasure. 

"And  it  is  not  worth  the  taking?"  queried  Pedro 
of  Wiles. 

Wiles's  right  eye  and  bland  face  were  turned  toward 
the  speaker,  but  his  malevolent  left  was  glancing  at 
the  dull  red-brown  rock  on  the  hill  side. 

"  No  !  " —  and  turning  abruptly  away,  he  proceeded 
to  saddle  his  mule. 

Manuel,  Miguel,  and  Pedro,  left  to  themselves, 
began  talking  earnestly  together,  while  Concho,  now 
mindful  of  his  crippled  mule,  made  his  way  back  to 
the  trail  where  he  had  left  her.  But  she  was  no 
longer  there.  Constant  to  her  master  through  beat 
ings  and  bullyings,  she  could  not  stand  incivility  and 
inattention.  There  are  certain  qualities  of  the  sex 
that  belong  to  all  animated  nature. 

Inconsolable,  footsore,  and  remorseful,  Concho  re 
turned  to  the  camp  and  furnace,  three  miles  across  the 
rocky  ridge.  But  what  was  his  astonishment  on  arriv 
ing  to  find  the  place  deserted  of  man,  mule,  and  camp 
equipage.  Concho  called  aloud.  Only  the  echoing 
rocks  grimly  answered  him.  Was  it  a  trick  ?  Con 
cho  tried  to  laugh.  Ah  —  yes  —  a  good  one, —  a  joke, 
— no — no — they  had  deserted  him !  And  then  poor 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  15 

Concho  bowed  his  head  to  the  ground,  and  falling  on 
his  face,  cried  as  if  his  honest  heart  would  break. 

The  tempest  passed  in  a  moment;  it  was  not  Con- 
cho's  nature  to  suffer  long  nor  brood  over  an  injury. 
As  he  raised  his  head  again  his  eye  caught  the  shim 
mer  of  the  quicksilver, —  that  pool  of  merry  antic  metal 
that  had  so  delighted  him  an  hour  before.  In  a  few 
moments  Concho  was  again  disporting  with  it ;  chasing 
it  here  and  there,  rolling  it  in  his  palms  and  laugh 
ing  with  boy-like  glee  at  its  elusive  freaks  and  fancies. 
"  Ah,  sprightly  one, —  skipjack, —  there  thou  goest, — 
come  here.  This  way, — now  I  have  thee,  little  one, 
—  come,  muchacha, —  come  and  kiss  me,"  until  he 
had  quite  forgotten  the  defection  of  his  companions. 
And  even  when  he  shouldered  his  sorry  pack,  he 
was  fain  to  carry  his  playmate  away  with  him  in  his 
empty  leathern  flask. 

And  yet  I  fancy  the  sun  looked  kindly  on  him  as 
he  strode  cheerily  down  the  black  mountain  side,  and 
his  step  was  none  the  less  free  nor  light  that  he  car 
ried  with  him  neither  the  brilliant  prospects  nor  the 
crime  of  his  late  comrades. 


16  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 


CHAPTER  rn. 

WHO     CLAIMED     IT. 

The  fog  had  already  closed  in  on  Monterey,  and  was 
now  rolling,  a  white,  billowy  sea  above,  that  soon  shut 
out  the  blue  breakers  below.  Once  or  twice  in  descend 
ing  the  mountain  Concho  had  overhung  the  cliff  and 
looked  down  upon  the  curving  horse-shoe  of  a  bay 
below  him,  —  distant  yet  many  miles.  Earlier  in  the 
afternoon  he  had  seen  the  gilt  cross  on  the  white-faced 
Mission  flare  in  the  sunlight,  but  now  all  was  gone. 
By  the  time  he  reached  the  highway  of  the  town  it  was 
quite  dark,  and  he  plunged  into  the  first  fonda  at  the 
wayside,  and  endeavored  to  forget  his  woes  and  his 
weariness  in  aguardiente.  But  Concho's  head  ached, 
and  his  back  ached,  and  he  was  so  generally  distressed 
that  he  bethought  him  of  a  medico,  —  an  American, 
doctor, — lately  come  into  the  town,  who  had  once 
treated  Concho  and  his  mule  with  apparently  the  same 
medicine,  and  after  the  same  heroic  fashion.  Concho 
reasoned,  not  illogically,  that  if  he  were  to  be  phys 
icked  at  all  he  ought  to  get  the  worth  of  his  money. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  17 

The  grotesque  extravagance  of  life,  of  fruit  and  vege 
tables,  in  California  was  inconsistent  with  infinitesi 
mal  doses.  In  Concho's  previous  illness  the  doctor 
had  given  him  a  dozen  4  gr.  quinine  powders.  The 
following  day  the  grateful  Mexican  walked  into  the 
Doctor's  office  —  cured.  The  Doctor  was  gratified 
until,  on  examination,  it  appeared  that  to  save  trouble, 
and  because  his  memory  was  poor,  Concho  had  taken 
all  the  powders  in  one  dose.  The  Doctor  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  —  altered  his  practice. 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Guild,  as  Concho  sank  down 
exhaustedly  in  one  of  the  Doctor's  two  chairs,  "  what 
now?  Have  you  been  sleeping  again  in  the  tule 
marshes,  or  are  you  upset  with  commissary  whisky? 
Come,  have  it  out." 

But  Concho  declared  that  the  devil  was  in  his  stom 
ach,  that  Judas  Iscariot  had  possessed  himself  of  his 
spine,  that  imps  were  in  his  forehead,  and  that  his 
feet  had  been  scourged  by  Pontius  Pilate. 

"  That  means  '  blue  mass,'  "  said  the  Doctor.  And 
gave  it  to  him, —  a  bolus  as  large  as  a  musket  ball, 
and  as  heavy. 

Concho  took  it  on  the  spot,  and  turned  to  go. 

u  I  have  no  money,  Senor  Medico." 

"  Never  mind.  It 's  only  a  dollar,  the  price  of  the 
medicine." 

Concho  looked  guilty  at  having  gulped  down  so 
much  cash.  Then  he  said  timidly : 


18  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"I  have  no  money,  but  I  have  got  here  what  is 
fine  and  jolly.  It  is  yours."  And  he  handed  over 
the  contents  of  the  precious  tin  can  he  had  brought 
with  him. 

The  Doctor  took  it,  looked  at  the  shivering  volatile 
mass  and  said,  "  Why,  this  is  quicksilver ! " 

Concho  laughed,  "  Yes,  very  quick  silver,  so ! "  and 
he  snapped  his  fingers  to  show  its  sprightliness. 

The  Doctor's  face  grew  earnest;  "  Where  did  you 
get  this,  Concho?"  he  finally  asked. 

"It  ran  from  the  pot  in  the  mountains  beyond." 

The  Doctor  looked  incredulous.  Then  Concho 
related  the  whole  story. 

"  Could  you  find  that  spot  again  ?  " 

" Madre  De  Dios,  yes,  — I  have  a  mule  there;  may 
the  devil  fly  away  with  her ! " 

"  And  you  say  your  comrades  saw  this  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"And  you  say  they  afterwards  left  you, —  deserted 
you?" 

"  They  did,  ingrates ! " 

The  Doctor  arose  and  shut  his  office  door.  "  Hark 
ye,  Concho,"  he  said,  "that  bit  of  medicine  I  gave 
you  just  now  was  worth  a  dollar.  It  was  worth  a 
dollar  because  the  material  of  which  it  was  composed 
was  made  from  the  stuff  you  have  in  that  can, —  quick 
silver  or  mercury.  It  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  of 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  19 

metals,  especially  in  a  gold-mining  country.  My  good 
fellow,  if  you  know  where  to  find  enough  of  it,  your 
fortune  is  made." 

Concho  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Tell  me,  was  the  rock  you  built  your  furnace  of 
red?" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"And  brown?" 

"Si,  Senor." 

"  And  crumbled  under  the  heat  ?  " 

"  As  to  nothing."  . 

"  And  did  you  see  much  of  this  red  rock?" 

"  The  mountain  mother  is  in  travail  with  it." 

"  Arc  you  sure  that  your  comrades  have  not  taken 
possession  of  the  mountain  mother?  " 

"As  how?" 

"  By  claiming  its  discovery  under  the  mining  laws, 
or  by  pre-emption?  " 

".They  shall  not." 

"But  how  will  you,  single-handed,  fight  the  four; 
for  I  doubt  not  your  scientific  friend  has  a  hand  in 
it?" 

"  I  will  fight." 

"Yes,  my  Concho,  but  suppose  I  take  the  fight  off 
your  hands.  Now,  here  's  a  proposition :  I  will  get 
half  a  dozen  Americanos  to  go  in  with  you.  You  will 
have  to  get  money  to  work  the  mine,  —  you  will  need 


20  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

funds.  You  shall  share  half  with  them.  They  will 
take  the  risk,  raise  the  money,  and  protect  you." 

"I  see,"  said  Concho,  nodding  his  head  and  wink 
ing  his  eyes  rapidly.  "  Bueno  /" 

"  I  will  return  in  ten  minutes,"  said  the  Doctor, 
taking  his  hat. 

lie  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  ten  minutes  he 
returned  with  six  original  locaters,  a  board  of  direct 
ors,  a  president,  secretary,  and  a  deed  of  incorporation 
of  the  '  Blue  Mass  Quicksilver  Mining  Co.'  This 
latter  was  a  delicoto  compliment  to  the  Doctor,  who 
was  popular.  The  President  added  to  these  necessary 
articles  a  revolver. 

"  Take  it,"  he  said,  handing  over  the  weapon  to 
Concho.  "Take  it;  my  horse  is  outside;  take  that, 
ride  like  h — 1  and  hang  on  to  the  claim  until  we  come ! " 

In  another  moment  Concho  was  in  the  saddle. 
Then  the  mining  director  lapsed  into  the  physician. 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  Dr.  Guild,  doubtfully,  "if, 
in  your  present  condition,  you  ought  to  travel.  You 
have  just  taken  a  powerful  medicine,"  and  the  Doctor 
looked  hypocritically  concerned. 

"Ah,— the  devil!"  laughed  Concho,  "what  is  the 
quicksilver  that  is  in  to  that  which  is  out  ?  Hoopa,  la 
Mula!"  and,  with  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  jinglo  of 
spurs,  he  was  presently  lost  in  the  darkness. 

"You  were  none  too  soon,   gentlemen,"  said  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  21 

American  Alcalde,  as  he  drew  up  before  the  Doctor's 
door.  "  Another  company  has  just  been  incorporated 
for  the  same  location,  I  reckon." 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"Three  Mexicans, —  Pedro,  Manuel,  and  Miguel, 
headed  by  that  d — d  cock-eyed  Sydney  Duck,  Wiles." 

"Are  they  hero?" 

"Manuel  and  Miguel,  only.  The  others  are  over 
at  Tres  Pinos  lally-gaging  Koscommon  and  trying  to 
rope  him  in  to  pay  off  their  whisky  bills  at  his  gro 
cery." 

"  If  that 's  so  we  need  n't  start  before  sun-rise,  for 
they're  sure  to  get  roaring  drunk." 

And  this  legitimate  successor  of  the  grave  Mexican 
Alcaldes,  having  thus  delivered  his  impartial  opinion, 
rode  away. 

Meanwhile,  Concho  the  redoubtable,  Concho  the 
fortunate,  spared  neither  riaia  nor  spur.  The  way 
was  dark,  the  trail  obscure  and  at  times  even  danger 
ous,  and  Concho,  familiar  as  he  was  with  these  mount 
ain  fastnesses,  often  regretted  his  sure-footed  Fran- 
cisquita.  "  Care  not,  0  Concho,"  he  would  say  to 
himself,  "  'tis  but  a  little  while,  only  a  little  while, 
and  thou  shalt  have  another  Francisquita  to  bless  thee. 
Eh,  skipjack,  there  was  line  music  to  thy  dancing. 
A  dollar  for  an  ounce, — 'tis  as  good  as  silver,  and 
merrier."  Yet  for  all  his  good  spirits  he  kept  a  sharp 


22  The  Stonj  of  a  Mine. 

lookout  at  certain  bends  of  the  mountain  trail ;  not 
for  assassins  or  brigands,  for  Concho  was  physically 
courageous,  but  for  the  Evil  one,  who,  in  various  forms, 
was  said  to  lurk  in  the  Santa  Cruz  Ilangc,  to  the  great 
discomfort  of  all  true  Catholics.  lie  recalled  the 
incident  of  Ignacio,  a  muleteer  of  the  Franciscan 
Friars,  who,  stopping  at  the  Angelas  to  repeat  the 
Credo,  saw  Luzbel  plainly  in  the  likeness  of  a  mon 
strous  grizzly  bear,  mocking  him  by  sitting  on  his 
haunches  and  lifting  his  paws,  clasped  together,  as  if 
in  prayer.  Nevertheless,  with  one  hand  grasping  his 
reins  and  his  rosary,  and  the  other  clutching  his  whisky 
flask  and  revolver,  he  fared  on  so  rapidly  that  he 
reached  the  summit  as  the  earlier  streaks  of  dawn 
were  outlining  the  far-off  Sierran  peaks.  Tethering 
his  horse  on  a  strip  of  table  land,  he  descended  cau 
tiously  afoot  until  he  reached  the  bench,  the  wall  of 
red  rock  and  the  crumbled  and  dismantled  furnace. 
It  was  as  he  had  left  it  that  morning;  there  was  no 
trace  of  recent  human  visitation.  Revolver  in  hand, 
Concho  examined  every  cave,  gully,  and  recess,  peered 
behind  trees,  penetrated  copses  of  buckeye  and  man- 
zanita,  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
faint  soughing  of  the  wind  over  the  pines  below  him. 
For  a  while  he  paced  backward  and  forward  with  a 
vague  sense  of  being  a  sentinel,  but  his  mercurial 
nature  soon  rebelled  against  this  monotony,  and  soon 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  23 

the  fatigues  of  the  day  began  to  tell  upon  him.  Re 
course  to  his  whisky  flask  only  made  him  the  drowsier, 
until  at  last  he  was  fain  to  lie  down  and  roll  himself 
up  tightly  in  his  blanket.  The  next  moment  he  was 
sound  asleep. 

His  horse  neighed  twice  from  the  summit,  but  Con- 
cho  heard  him  not.  Then  the  brush  crackled  on  the 
ledge  above  him,  a  small  fragment  of  rock  rolled  near 
his  feet,  but  he  stirred  not.  And  then  two  black  fig 
ures  were  outlined  on  the  crags  beyond. 

"  St-trt ! "  whispered  a  voice.  "  There  is  one  lying 
beside  the  furnace."  The  speech  was  Spanish,  but 
the  voice  was  "Wiles's. 

The  other  figure  crept  cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the 
crag  and  looked  over.  "  It  is  Concho,  the  imbecile," 
said  Pedro,  contemptuously. 

"  But  if  he  should  not  be  alone,  or  if  he  should 
waken?" 

"  I  will  watch  and  wait.  Go  you  and  affix  the  noti 
fication." 

Wiles  disappeared.  Pedro  began  to  creep  down 
the  face  of  the  rocky  ledge,  supporting  himself  by 
chemisal  and  brush-wood. 

The  next  moment  Pedro  stood  beside  the  uncon 
scious  man.  Then  he  looked  cautiously  around.  The 
figure  of  his  companion  was  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the 
rocks  above ;  only  a  slight  crackle  of  brush  betrayed 


24  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

*•"•*. 

Ms  whereabouts.  Suddenly  Pedro  flung  his  scrape 
over  the  sleeper's  head,  and  then  threw  his  powerful 
frame  and  tremendous  weight  full  upon  Concho's 
upturned  face,  while  his  strong  arms  clasped  jfche  blan 
ket-pinioned  limbs  of  his  victim.  There  was  a  moment 
ary  upheaval,  a  spasm,  and  a  struggle ;  but  the  tightly- 
rolled  blanket  clung  to  the  unfortunate  man  like  cere 
ments. 

There  was  no  noise,  no  outcry,  no  sound  of  struggle. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  peaceful,  pros 
trate  figures  of  the  two  men  darkly  outlined  on  the 
ledge.  They  might  have  been  sleeping  in  each  other's 
arms.  In  the  black  silence  the  stealthy  tread  of 
Wiles  in  the  bush  above  was  distinctly  audible. 

Gradually  the  struggles  grew  fainter.  Then  a  whis 
per  from  the  crags : 

"  I  can 't  see  you.     What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"Watching!" 

"Sleeps  he?" 

"He  sleeps!" 

"Soundly?" 

"Soundly." 

"After  the  manner  of  the  dead?" 

"  After  the  fashion  of  the  dead ! " 

The  last  tremor  had  ceased.  Pedro  rose  as  Wiles 
descended. 

"All  is  ready,"  said  Wiles;  "you  are  a  witness  of 
my  placing  the  notifications  ?  " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  25 

"  I  am  a  witness." 

"  But  of  this  one  ?  "  pointing  to  Concho.  "  Shall 
we  leave  him  here  ?  " 

"  A  drunken  imbecile, —  why  not  ?  " 

Wiles  turned  his  left  eye  on  the  speaker.  They 
chanced  to  be  standing  nearly  in  the  .  same  attitude 
they  had  stood  the  preceding  night.  Pedro  uttered 
a  cry  and  an  imprecation,  "Carramba!  Take  your 
devil's  eye  from  me !  What  see  you  ?  Eh, —  what  ?  " 

"Nothing,  good  Pedro,"  said  Wiles,  turning  his 
bland  right  cheek  to  Pedro.  The  infuriated  and  half- 
frightened  ex-vaquero  returned  the  long  knife  he  had 
half-drawn  from  its  sheath,  and  growled  surlily : 

"Go  on  then !  But  keep  thou  on  that  side,  and  I 
will  on  this."  And  so,  side  by  side,  listening, 
watching,  distrustful  of  all  things,  but  mainly  of  each 
other,  they  stole  back  and  up  into  those  shadows  from 
which  they  might  like  evil  spirits  have  been  poetically 
evoked. 

A  half  hour  passed,  in  which  the  east  brightened, 
flashed,  and  again  melted  into  gold.  And  then  the 
sun  came  up  haughtily,  and  a  fog  that  had  stolen 
across  the  summit  in  the  night  arose  and  fled  up  the 
mountain  side,  tearing  its  white  robes  in  its  guilty 
haste,  and  leaving  them  fluttering  from  tree  and  crag 
and  scar.  A  thousand  tiny  blades,  nestling  in  the 
crevices  of  rocks,  nurtured  in  storms  and  rocked  by 


2G  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

the  trade  winds,  stretched  their  wan  and  feeble  arms 
toward  Him;  but  Concho  the  strong,  Concho  the 
brave,  Concho  the  light-hearted  spake  not  nor  stirred. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHO  TOOK  IT. 

There  was  persistent  neighing  on  the  summit.  Con- 
cho's  horse  wanted  his  breakfast. 

This  protestation  reached  the  ears  of  a  party  ascend 
ing  the  mountain  from  its  western  face.  To  one  of 
the  party  it  was  familiar. 

"Why,  blank  it  all,  that's  Chiquita.  That  d— d 
Mexican 's  lying  drunk  somewhere,"  said  the  President 
of  the  B.  M.  Co. 

"  I  do  n't  like  the  look  of  this  at  all,"  said  Dr. 
Guild,  as  they  rode  up  beside  the  indignant  animal. 
"  If  it  had  been  an  American,  it  might  have  been  care 
lessness,  but  no  Mexican  ever  forgets  his  beast.  Drive 
ahead,  boys ;  we  may  be  too  late." 

In  half  an  hour  they  came  in  sight  of  the  ledge 
below;  the  crumbled  furnace,  and  the  motionless  figure 
of  Concho,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  lying  prone  in  the 
sunlight. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  27 

"I  told  you  so, —  drunk!"  said  the  President. 

The  Doctor  looked  grave,  but  did  not  speak.  They 
dismounted  and  picketed  their  horses.  Then  crept  on 
all  fours  to  the  ledge  above  the  furnace.  There  was 
a  cry  from  Secretary  Gibbs,  "  Look  yer.  Some  fellar 
hus  been  jumping  us,  boys.  See  these  notices." 

There  were  two  notices  on  canvas  affixed  to  the 
rock,  claiming  the  ground,  and  signed  by  Pedro,  Man 
uel,  Miguel,  Wiles,  and  Roscommon. 

"This  was  done,  Doctor,  while  your  trustworthy 

Greaser  locater,  —  d n  him,  —  lay  there  drunk. 

What 's  to  be  done  now?  " 

But  the  Doctor  was  making  his  way  to  the  unfortu 
nate  cause  of  their  defeat,  lying  there  quite  mute  to 
their  reproaches.  The  others  followed  him. 

The  Doctor  knelt  beside  Concho,  unrolled  him, 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  wrist,  his  ear  over  his  heart, 
and  then  said : 

"  Dead." 

"  Of  course.  He  got  medicine  of  you  last  night. 
This  comes  of  your  d — d  heroic  practice." 

But  the  Doctor  was  too  much  occupied  to  heed  the 
speaker's  raillery.  He  had  peered  into  Concho's  pro 
tuberant  eye,  opened  his  mouth,  and  gazed  at  the 
swollen  tongue,  and  then  suddenly  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Tear  down  those  notices,  boys,  but  keep  them. 
Put  up  your  own.  Do  n't  be  alarmed,  you  will  not 


28  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

be  interfered  with,  for  here  is  murder  added  to  rob 
bery." 

"Murder?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  excitedly,  "I  '11  take  my 
oath  on  any  inquest  that  this  man  was  strangled  to 
death.  He  was  surprised  while  asleep.  Look  here." 
He  pointed  to  the  revolver  still  in  Concho's  stiffening 
hand,  which  the  murdered  man  had  instantly  cocked, 
but  could  not  use  in  the  struggle. 

"  That 's  so,"  said  the  President,  "  no  man  goes  to 
sleep  with  a  cocked  revolver.  What 's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Everything,"  said  the  Doctor.  "This  deed  was 
committed  within  the  last  two  hours ;  the  body  is  still 
warm.  The  murderer  did  not  come  our  way,  or  we 
should  have  met  him  on  the  trail.  He  is,  if  anywhere, 
between  here  and  Tres  Pinos" 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  President,  with  a  slight  pre 
paratory  and  half  judicial  cough,  "  two  of  you  will  stay 
here  and  stick !  The  others  will  follow  me  to  Tres 
Pinos.  The  law  has  been  outraged.  You  understand 
the  Court!" 

By  some  odd  influence  the  little  group  of  half-cynical, 
half-trifling,  and  wholly  reckless  men  had  become  sud 
denly  sober,  earnest  citizens.  They  said,  "Go  on," 
nodded  their  heads,  and  betook  themselves  to  their 
horses. 

"  Had  we  not  better  wait  for  the  inquest  and  swear 
out  a  warrant  ?  "  said  the  Secretary,  cautiously. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  29 

"  How  many  men  have  we  ?  " 

"Five!" 

"  Then,"  said  the  President,  summing  tip  the  Revised 
Statutes  of  the  State  of  California  in  one  strong  sen 
tence;  "then  we  do  n't  want  no  d d  warrant." 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHO    HAD    A    LIEN    ON    IT. 

It  was  high  noon  at  Trcs  Pinos.  The  three  pines 
from  which  it  gained  its  name,  in  the  dusty  road  and 
hot  air,  seemed  to  smoke  from  their  balsamic  spires. 
There  was  a  glare  from  the  road,  a  glare  from  the 
sky,  a  glare  from  the  rocks,  a  glare  from  the  white 
canvas  roofs  of  the  few  shanties  and  cabins  which  made 
up  the  village.  There  was  even  a  glare  from  the 
unpainted  red-wood  boards  of  Roscommon's  grocery 
and  tavern,  and  a  tendency  of  the  warping  floor  of  the 
veranda  to  curl  up  beneath  the  feet  of  the  intruder. 
A  few  mules,  near  the  watering  trough,  had  shrunk 
within  the  scant  shadow  of  the  corral. 

The  grocery  business  of  Mr.  Roscommon,  although 
adequate  and  sufficient  for  the  village,  was  not  exhaust- 


30  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

ing  nor  overtaxing  to  the  proprietor;  the  refilling  of 
the  pork  and  flour  barrel  of  the  average  miner  was  the 
work  of  a  brief  hour  on  Saturday  nights,  but  the  daily 
replenishment  of  the  average  miner  with  whisky  was 
arduous  and  incessant.  Roscommon  spent  more  time 
behind  his  bar  than  his  grocer's  counter.  Add  to  this 
the  fact  that  a  long  shed-like  extension  or  wing  bore 
the  legend,  '  Cosmopolitan  Hotel,  Board  or  Lodging 
by  the  Day  or  Week.  M.  Roscommon,'  and  you  got 
an  idea  of  the  variety  of  the  proprietor's  functions. 
The  '  hotel,'  however,  was  more  directly  under  the 
charge  of  Mrs.  Roscommon,  a  lady  of  thirty  years, 
strong,  truculent,  and  good-hearted. 

Mr.  Roscommon  had  early  adopted  the  theory  that 
most  of  his  customers  were  insane,  and  were  to  be 
alternately  bulliod  or  placated,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Nothing  that  occurred,  no  extravagance  of  speech  nor 
act,  ever  ruffled  his  equilibrium,  which  was  as  dogged 
and  stubborn  as  it  was  outwardly  calm.  When  not 
serving  liquor,  or  in  the  interval  while  it  was  being 
drank,  he  was  always  wiping  his  counter  with  an 
exceedingly  dirty  towel. —  or  indeed  anything  that 
came  handy.  Miners,  noticing  this  purely  perfunctory 
habit,  occasionally  supplied  him  slily  with  articles 
inconsistent  with  their  service, —  fragments  of  their 
shirts  and  underclothing,  flour  sacking,  tow,  and  once 
with  a  flannel  petticoat  of  his  wife's,  stolen  from  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  31 

line  in  the  back  yard.  Roscommou  would  continue 
his  wiping  without  looking  up,  but  yet  conscious  of  the 
presence  of  each  customer.  "And  it 's  not  another 
dhrop  ye  '11  git,  Jack  Brown,  until  ye  've  wiped  out 
the  black  score  that  stands  agin  ye."  "And  it 's  there 
ye  are,  darlint,  and  it 's  here 's  the  bottle  that 's  been 
lukin'  for  ye  sins  Saturday."  "  And  fwhot  hev  you 
done  with  the  last  I  sent  ye,  ye  divil  of  a  McCorklc, 
and  here 's  me  back  that 's  bruk  entoirely  wid  dipping 
intil  the  pork  barl  to  giv  ye  the  best  sides,  and  ye 
spending  yur  last  cint  on  a  tare  into  Gilroy.  Whist ! 
and  if  it 's  for  foighting  ye  are,  boys,  there 's  an  illi- 
gant  bit  of  sod  beyant  the  corral,  and  it  may  be  meself 
'11  come  out  with  a  shtick  and  be  sociable." 

On  this  particular  day,  however,  Mr.  Roscommon 
was  not  in  his  usual  spirits,  and  when  the  clatter  of 
horses'  hoofs  before  the  door  announced  the  approach 
of  strangers,  he  absolutely  ceased  wiping  his  counter 
and  looked  up  as  Dr.  Guild,  the  President,  and  Secre 
tary  of  the  new  Company  strode  into  the  shop. 

"  We  are  looking,"  said  the  President,  "for  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Wiles,  and  three  Mexicans  known  as 
Pedro,  Manuel,  and  Miguel." 

"Ye  are?" 

"  We  are ! " 

"Faix,  and  I  hope  ye '11  foind  'em.  And  if  ye '11 
git  from  'em  the  score  I  'ye  got  agin  'em,  darlint,  I  '11 
add  a  blessing  to  it." 


32  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this  from  the  bystanders,  who, 
somehow,  resented  the  intrusion  of  these  strangers. 

"  I  fear  you  will  find  it  no  laughing  matter,  gentle 
men,"  said  Dr.  Guild,  a  little  stiffly,  "  when  I  tell  you 
that  a  murder  has  been  committed,  and  the  men  I  am 
seeking  within  an  hour  of  that  murder  put  up  that 
notice  signed  by  their  names,"  and  Dr.  Guild  displayed 
the  paper. 

There  was  a  breathless  silence  among  the  crowd  as 
they  eagerly  pressed  around  the  Doctor.  Only  Ros- 
common  kept  on  wiping  his  counter. 

"You  will  observe,  gentlemen,  that  the  name  of 
Roscommon  also  appears  on  this  paper  as  one  of  the 
original  locators." 

"  And  sure,  darlint,"  said  Roscommon,  without  look 
ing  up,  "if  ye've  no  better  ividince  agin  them  boys 
then  you  have  f orninst  me,  it 's  home  ye  'd  bether  be 
riding  to  wanst.  For  it 's  meself  as  has  n't  sturred  fut 
out  of  the  store  the  day  and  noight, —  more  betoken  as 
the  boys  I  Ve  sarved  kin  testify." 

"That's  so,  Ross*  right,"  chorused  the  crowd, 
"We've  been  running  the  old  man  all  night." 

"  Then  how  comes  your  name  on  this  paper  ?  " 

"  0  murdher !  will  ye  listen  to  him,  boys  ?  As  if 
every  felly  that  owed  me  a  whisky  bill  did  n't  come 
to  me  and  say,  '  Ah,  Misther  Roscommon,'  or  '  Moike,' 
as  the  case  moight  be,  sure  it 's  an  illigant  sthrike  I  've 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  33 

made  this  day,  and  it 's  meself  that  has  put  down  your 
name  as  an  original  locater,  and  yer  fortune  's  made 
Mr.  Roscommon,  and  will  yer  fill  me  up  another  quart 
for  the  good  luck  betune  you  and  me.  Ah,  but  ask 
Jack  Brown  over  yan  if  it  isn't  sick  that  I  am  of  his 
original  locations." 

The  laugh  that  followed  this  speech,  and  its  practi 
cal  application,  convinced  the  party  that  they  had 
blundered,  that  they  could  obtain  no  clue  to  the  real 
culprits  here,  and  that  any  attempt  by  threats  would 
meet  violent  opposition.  Nevertheless  the  Doctor  was 
persistent : 

"When  did  you  see  these  men  last? " 

"When  did  I  see  them,  is  it?  Bedad,  what  with 
sarvin  up  the  liquor  and  keeping  me  counters  dry  and 
swate,  I  never  see  them  at  all." 

"That's  so,  Ross,"  chorused  the  crowd  again,  to 
whom  the  whole  proceeding  was  delightfully  farcical. 

"  Then  I  can  tell  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Doctor, 
stiffly,  "  that  they  were  in  Monterey  last  night,  that 
they  did  not  return  on  that  trail  this  morning,  and 
that  they  must  have  passed  here  at  daybreak." 

With  these  words,  which  the  Doctor  regretted  as 
soon  as  delivered,  the  party  rode  away. 

Mr.  Roscommon  resumed  his  service  and  counter 
wiping.  But  late  that  night,  when  the  bar  was  closed 
and  the  last  loiterer  was  summarily  ejected,  Mr.  Ros- 

3 


34  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

common,  in  the  conjugal  privacy  of  his  chamber,  pro 
duced  a  legal-looking  paper.  "  Read  it,  Maggie,  darlint, 
for  it 's  meself  never  had  the  laming  nor  the  parts." 

Mistress  Roscommon  took  the  paper  : 

"  Shure,  it's  law  papers, making  over  some  property 
to  yis.  0  Moike !  ye  hav  n't  been  spekilating ! " 

"  Whist !  and  fwhotz  that  durty  gray  paper  wid  the 
sales  and  nourishes  ?  " 

"  Faix,  it  bothers  me  intoirely.  Shure  it  oin't  in 
English." 

"  Whist !  Maggie,  it 's  a  Spanish  grant !  " 

"  A  Spanish  grant?  0  Moike,  and  what  did  ye  giv 
for  it?" 

Mr.  Roscommon  laid  his  linger  beside  his  nose,  and 
said  softly,  "Whishky!" 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  35 


PART  II.— IN  THE  COURTS. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

HOW   A   GRANT   WAS   GOT   FOR   IT. 

While  the  Blue  Mass  Company,  with  more  zeal  than 
discretion  were  actively  pursuing  Pedro  and  Wiles 
over  the  road  to  Tres  Pinos,  Senors  Miguel  and 
Manuel  were  comfortably  seated  in  &fonda  at  Mon 
terey,  smoking  cigarritos  and  discussing  their  late 
discovery.  But  they  were  in  no  better  mood  than 
their  late  companions,  and  it  appeared  from  their  con 
versation  that  in  an  evil  moment  they  had  sold  out  their 
interest  in  the  alleged  silver  mine  to  Wiles  and  Pedro 
for  a  few  hundred  dollars, —  succumbing  to  what  they 
were  assured  would  be  an  active  opposition  on  the  part 
of  the  Americanos.  The  astute  reader  will  easily 
understand  that  the  accomplished  Mr.  Wiles  did  not 
inform  them  of  its  value  as  a  quicksilver  mine,  although 
he  was  obliged  to  impart  his  secret  to  Pedro  as  a 
necessary  accomplice  and  reckless  coadjutor.  That 


36  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Pedro  felt  no  qualms  of  conscience  in  thus  betraying 
his  two  comrades  may  be  inferred  from  his  recent 
direct  and  sincere  treatment  of  Concho,  and  that  he 
would,  if  occasion  offered  or  policy  made  it  expedient, 
as  calmly  obliterate  Mr.  Wiles, — that  gentleman  him 
self  never  for  a  moment  doubted. 

"  If  we  had  waited  but  a  little  he  would  have  given 
more, — this  cock-eye ! "  regretted  Manuel  querulously. 

"  Not  apeso,"  said  Miguel,  firmly. 

"  And  why,  my  Miguel  ?  Thou  knowest  we  could 
have  worked  the  mine  ourselves." 

"  Good,  and  lost  even  that  labor.  Look  you,  little 
brother.  Show  to  me  now  the  Mexican  that  has  ever 
made  a  reed  of  a  mine  in  California.  How  many,  eh  ? 
None !  Not  a  one.  Who  owns  the  Mexican's  mine, 
eh?  Americanos!  Who  takes  money  from  the  Mexi 
can's  mine  ?  Americanos !  Thou  rememberest  Bri- 
ones,  who  spent  a  gold  mine  to  make  a  silver  one  ? 
Who  has  the  lands  and  house  of  Briones  ?  America 
nos  !  Who  has  the  cattle  of  Briones  ?  Americanos  ! 
Who  has  the  mine  of  Briones  ?  Americanos  !  Who 
has  the  silver  Briones  never  found  ?  Americanos  ! 
Always  the  same !  Forever!  Ah!  carramba!" 

Then  the  Evil  One  evidently  took  it  into  his  head 
and  horns  to  worry  and  toss  these  men  —  comparatively 
innocent  as  they  were — still  further,  for  a  purpose. 
For  presently  to  them  appeared  one  Victor  Garcia, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  37 

whilom  a  clerk  of  the  Ayuntemiento,  who  rallied  them 
over  aguardiente,  and  told  them  the  story  of  the  quick 
silver  discovery,  and  the  two  mining  claims  taken  out 
that  night  by  Concho  and  Wiles.  Whereat  Manuel 
exploded  with  profanity  and  burnt  blue  with  sulphur 
ous  malediction;  but  Miguel,  the  recent  ecclesiastic, 
sat  livid  and  thoughtful.  Finally  came  a  pause  in 
Manuel's  bombardment,  and  something  like  this  con 
versation  took  place  between  the  cooler  actors : 

Miguel  (thoughtfully).  "When  was  it  thou  didst 
petition  for  lands  in  the  valley,  friend  Victor  ?  " 

Victor  (amazedly).  "Never!  It  is  a  sterile  waste. 
Am  I  a  fool?" 

Miguel  (softly).  "Thou  didst.  Of  thy  Governor, 
Micheltorena.  I  have  seen  the  application." 

Victor  (beginning  to  appreciate  a  rodential  odor). 
"  Sif  I  had  forgotten.  Art  thou  sure  it  was  in  the 
valley?" 

Miguel  (persuasively).  "In  the  valley  and  up  the 
falda."* 

Victor  (with  decision).  "Certainly.  Of  a  verity, 
—  \\\Q  falda  likewise." 

Miguel  (eyeing  Victor).  "And  yet  thou  hadst  not 
the  grant.  Painful  is  it  that  it  should  have  been 

*  Falda,  or  valda,  i.  e.,  that  part  of  the  skirt  of  a  woman's  robe 
that  breaks  upon  the  ground,  and  is  also  applied  to  the  final  slope 
of  a  hill,  from  the  angle  that  it  makes  upon  the  level  plain. 


38  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

burned  with  the  destruction  of  the  other  archives,  by 
the  Americanos  at  Monterey." 

Victor  (cautiously  feeling  his  way).  "  Possible- 
mente" 

Miguel.  "  It  might  be  wise  to  look  into  it." 

Victor  (bluntly).  "  As  why  ?  " 

Miguel.  "  For  our  good  and  thine,  friend  Victor.  We 
bring  thee  a  discovery ;  thou  bringest  us  thy  skill,  thy 
experience,  thy  government  knowledge, —  thy  Custom 
House  paper."* 

Manuel  (breaking  in  drunkenly).  "But  for  what? 
We  are  Mexicans.  Are  we  not  fated  ?  We  shall  lose. 
Who  shall  keep  the  Americanos  off?" 

Miguel.  "  We  shall  take  one  American  in !  Ha! 
seest  thou?  This  American  comrade  shall  bribe  his 
courts,  his  corregidores.  After  a  little  he  shall  sup 
ply  the  men  who  invent  the  machine  of  steam,  the  mill, 
the  furnace,  eh  ?  " 

Victor.     "  But  who  is  he, — not  to  steal? " 

Miguel.  "  He  is  that  man  of  Ireland,  a  good  Catho 
lic,  at  Tres  Pinos" 

Victor  and  Manuel  Conines).  "  Roscommon?  " 

Miguel.  "  Of  the  same.  We  shall  give  him  a  share 
for  the  provisions,  for  the  tools,  for  the  aguardiente. 
It  is  of  the  Irish  that  the  Americanos  have  great  fear. 


*  Grants,  applications  and  official  notifications,  under  the  Span 
ish  Government,  were  drawn  on  a  stamped  paper  known  as  Cus 
tom  House  paper. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  39 

It  is  of  them  that  the  votes  are  made, —  that  the  Presi 
dent  is  chosen.  It  is  of  him  that  they  make  the 
Alcalde  in  San  Francisco.  And  we  are  of  the  Church, 
like  him." 

They  said  *  Bueno  '  altogether,  and  for  the  moment 
appeared  to  be  upheld  by  a  religious  enthusiasm, —  a 
joint  confession  of  faith  that  meant  death,  destruction, 
and  possibly  forgery,  as  against  the  men  who  thought 
otherwise. 

This  spiritual  harmony  did  away  with  all  practical 
consideration  and  doubt.  "  I  have  a  little  niece,"  said 
Victor,  "whose  work  with  the  pen  is  marvellous.  If 
one  says  to  her,  '  Carmen,  copy  me  this,  or  the  other 
one,' — even  if  it  be  copper-plate, — look  you  it  is  done, 
and  you  cannot  know  of  which  is  the  original.  Madre 
de  Dios  !  the  other  day  she  makes  me  a  rubric*  of  the 
Governor,  Pio  Pico,  the  same,  identical.  Thou  know- 
est  her,  Miguel.  She  asked  concerning  thee  yester 
day." 

With  the  embarrassment  of  an  underbred  man, 
Miguel  tried  to  appear  unconcerned,  but  failed  dis 
mally.  Indeed,  I  fear  that  the  black  eyes  of  Carmen 
had  already  done  their  perfect  and  accepted  work,  and 
had  partly  induced  the  application  for  Victor's  aid. 
He,  however,  dissembled  so  far  as  to  ask : 

*  The  Spanish  '  rubric '  is  the  complicated  flourish  attached  to  a 
signature,  and  is  as  individual  and  characteristic  as  the  hand 
writing. 


40  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

" But  will  she  not  know?  " 

"She  is  a  child." 

"But  will  she  not  talk?" 

"  Not  if  I  say  nay,  and  if  thou  —  eh,  Miguel  ?  "  . 

This  Lit  of  flattery  (which,  by  the  way,  was  a  lie, 
for  Victor's  niece  did  not  incline  favorably  to  Miguel) 
had  its  effect.  They  shook  hands  over  the  table. 
"But,"  said  Miguel,  "  what  is  to  be  done  must  be 
done  now."  "At  the  moment,"  said  Victor,  "  and 
thou  shalt  see  it  done.  Eh  ?  Does  it  content  thce  ? 
then  come !  " 

Miguel  nodded  to  Manuel.  -  "  We  will  return  in 
an  hour;  wait  thou  here." 

They  filed  out  into  the  dark,  irregular  street.  Fate 
led  them  to  pass  the  office  of  Dr.  Guild  at  the  moment 
that  Concho  mounted  his  horse.  The  shadows  con 
cealed  them  from  their  rival,  but  they  overheard  the 
last  injunctions  of  the  President  to  the  unlucky  Con 
cho. 

"Thou  nearest?"  said  Miguel,  clutching  his  com 
panion's  arm. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Victor.  "  But  let  him  ride,  my  friend ; 
in  one  hour  we  shall  have  that  that  shall  arrive  years 
before  him,"  and  with  a  complacent  chuckle  they 
passed  unseen  and  unheard  until,  abruptly  turning  a 
corner,  they  stopped  before  a  low  adobe  house. 

It  had  once  been  a  somewhat  pretentious  dwelling, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  41 

but  had  evidently  followed  tlie  fortunes  of  its  late 
owner,  Don  Juan  Briones,  who  had  offered  it  as  a  last 
sop  to  the  three-headed  Cerberus  that  guarded  the  El 
Refucjio  Plutonean  treasures,  and  who  had  swallowed 
it  in  a  single  gulp.  It  was  in  veiy  bad  case.  The 
furrows  of  its  red-tiled  roof  looked  as  if  they  were 
the  results  of  age  and  decrepitude.  Its  best  room  had 
a  musty  smell;  there  was  the  dampness  of  deliques 
cence  in  its  slow  decay,  but  the  Spanish  Californians 
were  sensible  architects,  and  its  massive  walls  and 
partitions  defied  the  earthquake  thrill,  and  all  the 
year  round  kept  an  even  temperature  within. 

Victor  led  Miguel  through  a  low  ante-room  into  a 
plainly-furnished  chamber,  where  Carmen  sat  paint 
ing. 

Now  Mistress  Carmen  was  a  bit  of  a  painter,  in  a 
pretty  little  way,  with  all  the  vague  longings  of  an 
artist,  but  without,  I  fear,  the  artist's  steadfast  soul. 
She  recognized  beauty  and  form  as  a  child  might, 
without  understanding  their  meaning,  and  somehow 
failed  to  make  them  even  interpret  her  woman's  moods, 
which  surely  were  nature's  too.  So  she  painted  every 
thing  with  this  innocent  lust  of  the  eye, — flowers,  birds, 
insects,  landscapes,  and  figures, — with  a  joyous  fidelity, 
but  no  particular  poetry.  The  bird  never  sang  to  her 
but  one  song,  the  flowers  or  trees  spake  but  one  lan 
guage,  and  her  skies  never  brightened  except  in  color. 


42  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

She  came  out  strong  on  the  Catholic  saints,  and  would 
toss  you  up  a  cleanly-shaven  Aloysius,  sweetly  desti 
tute  of  expression,  or  a  dropsical,  lethargic  Madonna 
that  you  couldn't  have  told  from  an  old  master,  so 
bad  it  was.  Her  faculty  of  faithful  reproduction  even 
showed  itself  in  fanciful  lettering, —  and  latterly  in 
the  imitation  of  fabrics  and  signatures.  Indeed,  with 
her  eye  for  beauty  of  form,  she  had  always  excelled 
in  penmanship  at  the  Convent, —  an  accomplishment 
which  the  good  sisters  held  in  great  repute. 

In  person  she  was  petite,  with  a  still  unformed 
girlish  figure,  perhaps  a  little  too  flat  across  the  back, 
and  with  possibly  a  too  great  tendency  to  a  boyish 
stride  in  walking.  Her  brow,  covered  by  blue-black 
hair,  was  low  and  frank  and  honest ;  her  eyes,  a  very 
dark  hazel,  were  not  particularly  large,  but  rather 
heavily  freighted  in  their  melancholy  lids  with  sleep 
ing  passion ;  her  nose  was  of  that  unimportant  charac 
ter  which  no  man  remembers ;  her  mouth  was  small 
and  straight ;  her  teeth,  white  and  regular.  The  whole 
expression  of  her  face  was  piquancy  that  might  be 
subdued  by  tenderness  or  made  malevolent  by  anger. 
At  present  it  was  a  salad  in  which  the  oil  and  vinegar 
were  deftly  combined.  The  astute  feminine  reader 
will  of  course  understand  that  tliis  is  the  ordinary 
superficial  masculine  criticism,  and  at  once  make  up 
her  mind  both  as  to  the  character  of  the  young  lady 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  43 

and  the  competency  of  the  critic.  I  only  know  that  I 
rather  liked  her.  And  her  functions  are  somewhat 
important  in  this  veracious  history. 

She  looked  up,  started  to  her  feet,  leveled  her  black 
brows  at  the  intruder,  but,  at  a  sign  from  her  uncle, 
showed  her  white  teeth  and  spake. 

It  was  only  a  sentence,  and  a  rather  common-place 
one  at  that;  but  if  she  could  have  put  her  voice  upon 
her  canvas,  she  might  have  retrieved  the  Garcia  for 
tunes.  For  it  was  so  musical,  so  tender,  so  sympa 
thizing,  so  melodious,  so  replete  with  the  graciousness 
of  womanhood,  that  she  seemed  to  have  invented  the 
language.  And  yet  that  sentence  was  only  an  exag 
gerated  form  of  the  'How d'ye  do,'  whined  out,  doled 
out,  lisped  out,  or  shot  out  from  the  pretty  mouths  of 
my  fair  country-women. 

Miguel  admired  the  paintings.  He  was  struck  par 
ticularly  with  a  crayon  drawing  of  a  mule.  "  Mother 
of  God,  it  is  the  mule  itself !  observe  now  it  will  not 
go."  Then  the  crafty  Victor  broke  in  with,  "But  it 
is  nothing  to  her  writing ;  look,  you  shall  tell  to  me 
which  is  the  handwriting  of  Pio  Pico;"  and,  from  a 
drawer  in  the  secretary,  he  drew  forth  two  signatures. 
One  was  affixed  to  a  yellowish  paper,  the  other  drawn 
on  plain  white  foolscap.  Of  course  Miguel  took  the 
more  modern  one  with  lover-like  gallantry.  "It  is 
this  is  genuine ! "  Victor  laughed  triumphantly ;  Car- 


44  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

* 

men  echoed  the  laugh  melodiously  in  child-like  glee, 
and  added,  with  a  slight  toss  of  her  piquant  head, 
"  It  is  mine !  "  The  best  of  the  sex  will  not  refuse  a 
just  and  overdue  compliment  from  even  the  man  they 
dislike.  It 's  the  principle  they  're  after,  not  the  sen 
timent. 

But  Victor  was  not  satisfied  with  this  proof  of  his 
niece's  skill.  "  Say  to  her,"  he  demanded  of  Miguel, 
"  what  name  thou  likest,  and  it  shall  be  done  before 
thee  here."  Miguel  was  not  so  much  in  love  but  he 
perceived  the  drift  of  Victor's  suggestion,  and  remarked 
that  the  rubric  of  Governor  Micheltorena  was  exceed 
ingly  complicated  and  difficult.  "  She  shall  do  it !" 
responded  Victor,  with  decision. 

From  a  file  of  old  departmental  papers  the  Gover 
nor's  signature  and  that  involved  rubric,  which  must 
have  cost  his  late  Excellency  many  youthful  days  of 
anxiety,  was  produced  and  laid  before  Carmen. 

Carmen  took  her  pen  in  her  hand,  looked  at  the 
brownish-looking  document,  and  then  at  the  virgin 
whiteness  of  the  foolscap  before  her.  "  But,"  she  said, 
pouting  prettily,  "I  should  have  to  first  paint  this 
white  paper  brown.  And  it  will  absorb  the  ink  more 
quickly  than  that.  When  I  painted  the  San  Antonio 
of  the  Mission  San  Gabriel  for  Father  Acolti,  I  had 
to  put  the  decay  in  with  my  oils  and  brushes  before 
the  good  Padre  would  accept  it." 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  45 

The  two  scamps  looked  at  each  other.  It  was  their 
supreme  moment.  "I  think  I  have,"  said  Victor, 
with  assumed  carelessness,  "I  think  I  have  some  of 
the  old  Custom-House  paper."  He  produced  from  the 
secretary  a  sheet  of  brown  paper  with  a  stamp.  "Try 
it  on  that." 

Carmen  smiled  with  childish  delight,  tried  it,  and 
produced  a  marvel!  "It  is  as  magic,"  said  Miguel, 
feigning  to  cross  himself. 

Victor's  role  was  more  serious.  He  affected  to  be 
deeply  touched,  took  the  paper,  folded  it,  and  placed 
it  in  his  breast.  "  I  shall  make  a  good  fool  of  Don 
Jose  Castro,"  he  said ;  "  he  will  declare  it  is  the  Gover 
nor's  own  signature,  for  he  was  his  friend ;  but  have 
a  care,  Carmen !  that  you  spoil  it  not  by  the  opening 
of  your  red  lips.  When  he  is  fooled,  I  will  tell  him 
of  this  marvel, —  this  niece  of  mine,  and  he  shall  buy 
her  pictures.  Eh,  little  one  ?  "  and  he  gave  her  the 
avuncular  caress,  i.  e.,  a  pat  of  the  hand  on  either 
cheek,  and  a  kiss.  Miguel  envied  him,  but  cupidity 
outgeneraled  Cupid,  and  presently  the  conversation 
flagged,  until  a  convenient  recollection  of  Victor's  — 
that  himself  and  comrade  were  due  at  the  Posada  del 
Toros  at  10  o'clock  —  gave  them  the  opportunity 
to  retire. 

But  not  without  a  chance  shot  from  Carmen.  "  Tell 
to  me,"  she  said,  half  to  Victor  and  half  to  Miguel, 


46  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"what  lias  chanced  with  Concho?  He  was  ever  ready 
to  bring  to  me  flowers  from  the  mountain,  and  insects 
and  birds.  Thou  knowest  how  he  would  sit,  oh,  my 
uncle,  and  talk  to  me  of  the  rare  rocks  he  had  seen, 
and  the  bears  and  the  evil  spirits,  and  now  he  comes 
no  longer,  my  Concho !  How  is  this  ?  Nothing  evil  has 
befallen  him,  surely?"  and  her  drooping  lids  closed 
half-pathetically. 

Miguel's  jealousy  took  fire.  "He  is  drunk,  Seno- 
rita,  doubtless,  and  has  forgotten  not  only  thee  but, 
mayhap,  his  mule  and  pack !  It  is  his  custom,  ha ! 
ha!" 

The  red  died  out  of  Carmen's  ripe  lips,  and  she  shut 
them  together  with  a  snap  like  a  steel  purse.  The 
dove  had  suddenly  changed  to  a  hawk ;  the  child-girl 
into  an  antique  virago;  the  spirit  hitherto  dimly  out 
lined  in  her  face,  of  some  shrewish  Garcia  ancestress, 
came  to  the  fore.  She  darted  a  quick  look  at  her 
uncle,  and  then,  with  her  little  hands  on  her  rigid  lips, 
strode  with  two  steps  up  to  Miguel. 

"Possibly,  0  Senor  Miguel  Dominguez  Perez  (a 
profound  courtesy  here)  it  is  as  thou  sayest.  Drunk 
ard  Concho  may  be ;  but,  drunk  or  sober,  he  never 
turned  his  back  on  his  friend  —  or — (the  words 
grated  a  little  here)  — his  enemy." 

Miguel  would  have  replied,  but  Victor  was  ready. 
"  Fool,"  he  said,  pinching  his  arm,  "  'tis  an  old  friend. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  47 

And — and — the  application  is  still  to  be  filled  up. 
Are  you  crazy  ?  " 

But  on  this  point  Miguel  was  not,  and  with  the  re 
venge  of  a  rival  added  to  his  other  instincts,  he  per 
mitted  Victor  to  lead  him  away. 

On  their  return  to  the  fonda,  they  found  Master 
Manuel  too  far  gone  with  aguardiente,  and  a  general 
animosity  to  the  average  Americano,  to  be  of  any  ser 
vice.  So  they  worked  alone,  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
in  the  stuffy,  e%amY0-clouded  back  room  of  the  fonda. 
It  was  midnight,  two  hours  after  Concho  had  started, 
that  Miguel  clapped  spurs  to  his  horse  for  the  village 
of  Tres  Pinos,  with  an  application  to  Governor  Michel- 
torena  for  a  grant  to  the  *  Eancho  of  the  Red  Bocks ' 
comfortably  bestowed  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER 

WHO     PLEAD     FOR    IT. 


There  can  be  little  doubt  the  coroner's  jury  of 
Fresno  would  have  returned  a  verdict  of  '  death  from 
alcoholism,'  as  the  result  of  their  inquest  into  the 
cause  of  Concho's  death,  had  not  Dr.  Guild  fought 


48  The,  Story  of  a  Mine. 

nobly  in  snpport  of  the  law  and  his  own  convictions. 
A  majority  of  the  jury  objected  to  there  being  any 
inquest  at  all.  A  sincere  juryman  thought  it  hard  that 
whenever  a  Greaser  pegged  out  in  a  sneakin'  kind  o' 
way,  American  citizens  should  be  taken  from  their 
business  to  find  out  what  ailed  him.  "  S'pose  he  was 
killed,"  said  another,  "  thar  ain't  no  time  this  thirty 
year  he  were  n't,  so  to  speak,  just  sufferin'  for  it,  ez  his 
nat'ral  right  ez  a  Mexican."  The  jury  at  last  com 
promised  by  bringing  in  a  verdict  of  homicide  against 
certain  parties  unknown.  Yet  it  was  understood  tac 
itly  that  these  unknown  parties  were  severally  Wiles 
and  Pedro ;  Manuel,  Miguel,  and  Roscommon  proving 
an  unmistakable  alibi.  Wiles  and  Pedro  had  fled  to 
Lower  California,  and  Manuel,  Miguel,  and  Roscom- 
mon  deemed  it  advisable,  in  the  then  excited  state  of 
the  public  mind,  to  withhold  the  forged  application  and 
claim  from  the  courts  and  the  public  comment.  So  that 
for  a  year  after  the  murder  of  Concho  and  the  flight 
of  his  assassins  "The  Blue  Mass  Mining  Company' 
remained  in  undisturbed  and  actual  possession  of  the 
mine,  and  reigned  in  their  stead. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  murdered  Concho  would  not 
down  any  more  than  that  of  the  murdered  Banquo, 
and  so  wrought,  no  doubt,  in  a  quiet,  Concho-like  way, 
sore  trouble  with  the  'Blue  Mass  Company.'  For 
a  great  Capitalist  and  Master  of  Avarice  came  down 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  49 

to  the  mine  and  found  it  fair,  and  taking  one  of  the 
Company  aside,  offered  to  Jcnd  his  name  and  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  coin  for  a  controlling  interest,  accom 
panying  the  generous  offer  with  a  suggestion  that  if 
it  were  not  acceded  to  he  would  be  compelled  to  buy 
up  various  Mexican  mines  and  flood  the  market  with 
quicksilver  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  '  Blue  Mass 
Company,'  which  thoughtful  suggestion,  offered  by  a 
man  frequently  alluded  to  as  one  of  'California's 
great  mining  princes,'  and  as  one  who  had  '  done  much 
to  develop  the  resources  of  the  State,'  was  not  to  be 
lightly  considered ;  and  so,  after  a  cautious  non-consul 
tation  with  the  Company,  and  a  commendable  secrecy, 
the  stockholder  sold  out.  Whereat  it  was  speedily 
spread  abroad  that  the  great  Capitalist  had  taken  hold 
of  'Blue  Mass,'  and  the  stock  went  up,  and  the  other 
stockholders  rejoiced  —  until  the  great  Capitalist  found 
that  it  was  necessary  to  put  up  expensive  mills,  to 
employ  a  high  salaried  Superintendent,  in  fact,  to 
develop  the  mine  by  the  spending  of  its  earnings,  so 
that  the  stock  quoted  at  112  was  finally  saddled  with 
an  assessment  of  $50  per  share.  Another  assessment 
of  $50  to  enable  the  Superintendent  to  proceed  to 
Russia  and  Spain  and  examine  into  the  workings  of 
the  quicksilver  mines  there,  and  also  a  general  com 
mission  to  the  gifted  and  scientific  Pillageman  to 
examine  into  the  various  component  parts  of  quick- 


50  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

silver,  and  report  if  it  could  not  be  manufactured  from 
ordinary  sand-stone  by  steam  or  electricity,  speedily 
brought  the  other  stockholders  to  their  senses.  It  was 
at  this  time  the  good  fellow  'Tom,'  the  serious-minded 
'Dick,'  and  the  speculative  but  fortunate  'Harry,' 
brokers  of  the  Great  Capitalist,  found  it  convenient 
to  buy  up,  for  the  Great  Capitalist  aforesaid,  the  vari 
ous  other  shares  at  great  sacrifice. 

I  fear  that  I  have  bored  my  readers  in  thus  giving  the 
tiresome  details  of  that  ingenuous  American  pastime 
which  my  country-men  dismiss  in  their  epigrammatic 
way  as  the  '  freezing-out  process.'  And  lest  any  reader 
should  question  the  ethics  of  the  proceeding,  I  beg  him 
to  remember  that  one  gentleman  accomplished  in  this 
art  was  always  a  sincere  and  direct  opponent  of  the 
late  Mr.  John  Oakhurst,  gambler. 

But  for  once  the  Great  Master  of  Avarice  had  not 
taken  into  sufficient  account  the  avarice  of  others, 
and  was  suddenly  and  virtuously  shocked  to  learn 
that  an  application  for  a  patent  for  certain  lands, 
known  as  the  'Red-Rock  Rancho,'  was  about  to  be 
offered  before  the  United  States  Land  Commission. 
This  claim  covered  his  mining  property.  But  the  infor 
mation  came  quietly  and  secretly,  as  all  of  the  Great 
Master's  information  was  obtained,  and  he  took  the 
opportunity  to  sell  out  his  clouded  title  and  his  pro 
prietorship  to  the  only  remaining  member  of  the  origi- 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  51 

nal  'Blue  Mass  Company,'  a  young  fellow  of  pith, 
before  many-tongued  rumor  had  voiced  the  news  far 
and  wide.  The  blow  was  a  heavy  one  to  the  party 
left  in  possession.  Saddled  by  the  enormous  debts 
and  expenses  of  the  Great  Capitalist,  with  a  credit 
now  further  injured  by  the  defection  of  this  lucky 
magnate,  who  was  admired  for  his  skill  in  anticipating 
a.  loss,  and  whose  relinquishment  of  any  project  meant 
ruin  to  it,  the  single-handed,  impoverished  possessor 
of  the  mine,  whose  title  was  contested,  and  whose  repu 
tation  was  yet  to  be  made, —  poor  Biggs,  first  secre 
tary  and  only  remaining  officer  of  the  '  Blue  Mass 
Company,'  looked  ruefully  over  his  books  and  his 
last  transfer,  and  sighed.  But  I  have  before  inti 
mated  that  he  was  built  of  good  stuff,  and  that  he 
believed  in  his  work, —  which  was  well, —  and  in  him 
self,  which*  was  better ;  and  so,  having  faith  even  as  a 
grain  of  mustard  seed,  I  doubt  not  he  would  have  been 
able  to  remove  that  mountain  of  quicksilver  beyond 
the  overlapping  of  fraudulent  grants.  And,  again, 
Providence  —  having  disposed  of  these  several  scamps 
—  raised  up  to  him  a  friend.  But  that  friend  is  of 
sufficient  importance  to  this  veracious  history  to  deserve 
a  paragraph  to  himself. 

The  Pylades  of  this  Orestes  was  known  of  ordinary 
mortals  as  Royal  Thatcher.  His  genealogy,  birth,  and 
education  are,  I  take  it,  of  little  account  to  this  chroni- 


52  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

cle,  which  is  only  concerned  with  his  friendship  for 
Biggs  and  the  result  thereof.  He  had  known  Biggs 
a  year  or  two  previously ;  they  had  shared  each  other's 
purses,  bunks,  cabins,  provisions,  and  often  friend:;,  with 
that  perfect  freedom  from  obligation  which  belonged 
to  the  pioneer  life.  The  varying  tide  of  fortune  had 
just  then  stranded  Thatcher  on  a  desert  sand  hill  in 
San  Francisco,  with  an  uninsured  cargo  of  Expecta 
tions,  while  to  Thatcher's  active  but  not  curious  fancy 
it  had  apparently  lifted  his  friend's  bark  over  the  bar 
in  the  Monterey  mountains  into  an  open  quicksilver 
sea.  So  that  he  was  considerably  surprisad  on  receiv 
ing  a  note  from  Biggs  to  this  purport : 

"  DEAR  ROY,  Hun  down  here  and  help  a,  fellow.  I  've  too  much 
of  a  load  for  one.  Maybe  we  can  make  a,  team  and  pull  '  Blue 
Mass  '  out  yet.  BIGGSEY." 

Thatcher,  sitting  in  his  scantily  furnished  lodgings, 
doubtful  of  his  next  meal  and  in  arrears  for  rent,  heard 
this  Macedonian  cry  as  St.  Paul  did.  He  wrote  a 
promissory  and  soothing  note  to  his  landlady,  but  fear 
ing  the  *  sweet  sorrow '  of  a  personal  parting,  let  his 
collapsed  valise  down  from  his  window  by  a  cord,  and, 
by  means  of  an  economical  combination  of  stage  riding 
and  pedestrianism,  he  presented  himself,  at  the  close 
of  the  third  day,  at  Biggs's  door.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  he  was  in  possession  of  the  story ;  half  an  hour 
later  in  possession  of  half  the  mine,  its  infelix  past 
and  its  doubtful  future,  equally  with  his  friend. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  53 

Business  over,  Biggs  turned  to  look  at  his  partner. 
"  You  Ve  aged  some  since  I  saw  you  last,"  he  said. 
"  Starvation  luck,  I  s'pose.  I  'd  know  your  eyes,  old 
fellow,  if  I  saw  them  among  ten  thousand;  but  your 
lips  are  parched,  and  your  mouth 's  grimmer  than  it 
used  to  be."  Thatcher  smiled  to  show  that  he  could 
still  do  so,  but  did  not  say,  as  he  might  have  said,  that 
self-control,  suppressed  resentment,  disappointment, 
and  occasional  hunger  had  done  something  in  the  way 
of  correcting  Nature's  obvious  mistakes,  and  shutting 
up  a  kindly  mouth.  He  only  took  off  his  thread-bare 
coat,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  saying,  "  We  Ve  got 
lots  of  work  and  some  fighting  before  us,"  pitched  into 
the  '  affairs '  of  the  '  Blue  Mass  Company'  on  the  instant. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OF     COUNSEL     FOR     IT. 

Meanwhile  Roscommon  had  waited.  Then,  in  Grar- 
cia's  name,  and  backed  by  him,  he  laid  his  case  before 
the  Land  Commissioner,  filing  the  application  (with 
forged  indorsements)  to  Governor  Michcltorena,  and 
alleging  that  the  original  grant  was  destroyed  by  fire. 
And  why? 


54  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

It  seemed  there  was  a  limit  to  Miss  Carmen's  imita 
tive  talent.  Admirable  as  it  was,  it  did  not  reach  to 
the  reproduction  of  that  official  seal,  which  would  have 
been  a  necessary  appendage  to  the  Governor's  grant. 
But  there  were  letters  written  on  stamped  paper  by 
Governor  Micheltorena  to  himself,  Garcia,  and  to  Mig 
uel,  and  to  Manuel's  father,  all  of  which  were  duly 
signed  by  the  sign  manual  and  rubric  of  Mrs.-Gov- 
ernor-Micheltorena-Carmcn-de-Haro.  And  then  there 
was  *  parol '  evidence,  and  plenty  of  it ;  witnesses  who 
remembered  everything  about  it, —  namely,  Manuel, 
Miguel,  and  the  all-recollecting  DC  Haro;  here  were 
details,  poetical  and  suggestive;  and  Damc-Quick- 
lyish,  as  when  his  late  Excellency,  sitting  not  '  by  a 
sea-coal  fire,'  but  with  aguardiente  and  ciyarros,  had 
sworn  to  him,  the  ex-ecclesiastic  Miguel,  that  he  should 
grant,  and  had  granted,  Garcia's  request.  There  were 
clouds  of  witnesses,  conversations,  letters,  and  records, 
glib  and  pat  to  the  occasion.  In  brief,  there  was  noth 
ing  wanted  but  the  seal  of  his  Excellency.  The  only 
copy  of  that  was  in  the  possession  of  a  rival  school  of 
renaissant  art  and  the  restoration  of  antiques,  then 
doing  business  before  the  Land  Commission. 

And  yet  the  claim  was  rejected !  Having  lately 
recommended  two  separate  claimants  to  a  patent  for 
the  same  land,  the  Land  Commission  became  cautious 
and  conservative. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  55 

Roscommon  was  at  first  astounded,  then  indignant, 
and  then  warlike, —  he  was  for  an  '  appale  to  onst ! ' 

With  the  reader's  previous  knowledge  of  Roscom- 
mon's  disposition  this  may  seem  somewhat  inconsistent ; 
but  there  are  certain  natures  to  whom  litigation  has 
all  the  excitement  of  gambling,  and  it  should  be  borne 
in  mind  that  this  was  his  first  lawsuit.  So  that  his 
lawyer,  Mr.  Saponaceous  Wood,  found  him  in  that 
belligerent  mood  to  which  counsel  are  obliged  to  hypo 
critically  bring  all  the  sophistries  of  their  profession. 
"  Of  course  you  have  your  right  to  an  appeal,  but  calm 
yourself,  my  dear  sir,  and  consider.  The  case  was  pre 
sented  strongly,  the  evidence  overwhelming  on  our 
side,  but  we  happened  to  be  fighting  previous  decisions 
of  the  Land  Commission  that  had  brought  them  into 
trouble  ;  so  that  if  Micheltorena  had  himself  appeared 
in  Court  and  testified  to  his  giving  you  the  grant,  it 
would  have  made  no  difference, —  no  Spanish  grant  had 
a  show  then,  nor  will  it  have  for  the  next  six  months. 
You  see,  my  dear  sir,  the  Government  sent  out  one  of 
its  big  Washington  lawyers  to  look  into  this  business, 
and  he  reported  frauds,  sir,  frauds,  in  a  majority  of 
the  Spanish  claims.  And  why,  sir  ?  why  ?  He  was 
bought,  sir,  bought — body  and  soul — by  the  Ring!  " 

"  And  fwhot  's  the  Ring?"  asked  his  client  sharply. 

"  The  Ring  is  —  ahem !  a  combination^  of  unprinci 
pled  but  wealthy  persons  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice."  - 


56  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  And  sure,  fwhot  's  the  Ring  to  do  wid  me  grant 
as  that  thaving  Mexican  gave  me  as  the  collaterals 
for  the  bourd  he  was  owin'  me  ?  Eh,  mind  that  now  !  " 

"  The  Ring,  my  dear  sir,  is  the  other  side.  It  is  — 
ahem  !  always  the  Other  Side." 

"  And  why  the  divel  have  n't  we  a  Ring  too  ?  And 
aint  I  payin'  ye  five  hundred  dollars, —  and  the  divel 
of  Ring  ye  have,  at  all,  at  all?  Fwhot  am  I  payin' 
ye  fur,  eh?" 

"  That  a  judicious  expenditure  of  money,"  began 
Mr.  Wood,  "  outside  of  actual  disbursements,  may  not 
be  of  infinite  service  to  you  I  am  not  prepared  to 
deny, —  but — " 

"Look  ye,  Mr.  Sappy  Wood,  it's  the  'appale'  I 
want,  and  the  grant  I  '11  have,  more  betoken  as  the 
old  woman's  har-rut  and  me  own  is  set  on  it  entoirely. 
Get  me  the  land  and  I  '11  give  ye  the  half  of  it,  —  and 
it's  a  bargain  !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  there  are  some  rules  in  our  pro 
fession, —  technical  though  they  may  be — " 

"  The  divel  fly  away  wid  yer  profession.  Sure  is 
it  better  nor  me  own  ?  If  I  've  risked  me  provisions  and 
me  whisky,  that  cost  me  solid  goold  in  Frisco,  on  that 
thafe  Grarcia's  claim,  bedad !  the  loikes  of  ye  can  risk 
yer  law." 

"  Well,"  said  Wood,  with  an  awkward  smile,  "  I 
suppose  that  a  deed  for  one  half,  on  the  consideration 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  57 

of  friendship,  my  dear  sir,  and  a  dollar  in  hand  paid 
by  me,  might  be  reconcilable." 

"  Now  it 's  talkin'  ye  are.  But  who 's  the  felly  we  're 
foighten,  that's  got  the  Ring?" 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  it 's  the  United  States,"  said  the 
lawyer  with  gravity. 

"  The  States !  the  Groverment  is  it  ?  And  is 't  that 
ye  're  afcared  of  ?  Sure  it 's  the  Groverment  that  I 
fought  in  me  own  counthree,  it  was  the  Groverment  that 
druv  me  to  Ameriky,  and  is  it  now  that  I  'm  goin' 
back  on  me  principles?" 

"Your  political  sentiments  do  you  great  credit," 
began  Mr.  Wood. 

"  But  fwhot  's  the  Groverment  to  do  wid  the  ap- 
pale?" 

"  The  Government,"  said  Mr.  Wood  significantly, 
"  will  be  represented  by  the  District  Attorney." 

"And  who  's  the  spalpeen  ?  " 

"It  is  rumored,"  said  Mr.  Wood  slowly,  "that  a 
new  one  is  to  be  appointed.  I,  myself,  have  had  some 
ambition  that  way." 

His  client  beat  a  pair  of  cunning  but  not  over-wise 
grey  eyes  on  his  American  lawyer.  But  he  only  said, 
"Ye  have,  eh?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Wood,  answering  the  look  boldly ;  "  and 
if  I  had  the  support  of  a  number  of  your  prominent 
country-men,  who  are  so  powerful  with  all  parties, — 


58  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

men  like  you,  my  dear  sir, —  why,  I  think  you  might 
in  time  become  a  conservative,  at  least  more  resigned 
to  the  Government." 

Then  the  lesser  and  the  greater  scamp  looked  at 
each  other,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  felt  a  warm,  sym 
pathetic,  friendly  emotion  for  each  other,  and  quietly 
shook  hands. 

Depend  upon  it  there  is  a  great  deal  more  kindly 
human  sympathy  between  two  openly-confessed  scamps 
than  there  is  in  that  calm,  respectable  recognition  that 
you  and  I,  dear  reader,  exhibit  when  we  happen  to 
oppose  each  other  with  our  respective  virtues. 

"  And  ye  '11  get  the  appale  ?  " 

"I  will." 

And  he  DID  !  And  by  a  singular  coincidence  got 
the  District  Attorneyship  also.  And  with  a  deed  for 
one  half  of  the  'Red-Rock  Rancho'  in  his  pocket, 
sent  a  brother  lawyer  in  court  to  appear  for  his  client, 
the  United  States,  as  against  himself,  Roscommon, 
Garcia,  et  al.  Wild  horses  could  not  have  torn  him 
from  this  noble  resolution.  There  is  an  indescribable 
delicacy  in  the  legal  profession  which  we  literary  folk 
ought  to  imitate. 

The  United  States  lost !  Which  meant  ruin  and  de 
struction  to  the  '  Blue  Mass  Company,'  who  had  bought 
from  a  paternal  and  beneficent  Government  lands  which 
didn't  belong  to  it.  The  Mexican  grant,  of  course, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  59 

ante-dated  the  occupation  of  the  mine  by  Concho,Wiles, 
Pedro,  et  al.,  as  well  as  by  the  '  Blue  Mass  Company,' 
and  the  solitary  partners,  Biggs  and  Thatcher.  Moro 
than  that,  it  swallowed  up  their  improvements.  It 
made  Biggs  and  Thatcher  responsible  to  Garcia  for  all 
the  money  the  Grand  Master  of  Avarice  had  made  out 
of  it.  Mr.  District  Attorney  was  apparently  distressed, 
but  resigned.  Messrs.  Biggs  and  Thatcher  were  really 
distressed  and  combative. 

And  then,  to  advance  a  few  years  in  this  chronicle, 
began  real  litigation  with  earnestness,  vigor,  courage, 
zeal,  and  belief  on  the  part  of  Biggs  and  Thatcher, 
and  technicalities,  delay,  equivocation,  and  a  general 
Fabian-like  policy  on  the  part  of  Garcia,  Roscommon, 
et  al.  Of  all  these  tedious  processes  I  note  but  one, 
which  for  originality  and  audacity  of  conception  appears 
to  me  to  indicate  more  clearly  the  temper  and  civiliza 
tion  of  the  epoch.  A  subordinate  officer  of  the  Dis 
trict  Court  refused  to  obey  the  mandate  ordering  a 
transcript  of  the  record  to  be  sent  up  to  the  United 
States  Supreme  Court.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the 
name  of  this  Ephesian  youth,  who  thus  fired  the  dome 
of  our  constitutional  liberties,  should  have  been  other 
wise  so  unimportant  as  to  be  confined  to  the  dusty  rec 
ords  of  that  doubtful  court  of  which  he  was  a  doubtful 
servitor,  and  that  his  claim  to  immortality  ceased  with 
his  double-feed  service.  But  there  still  stands  on 


60  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

record  a  letter  by  this  young  gentleman,  arraigning  the 
legal  wisdom  of  the  land,  which  is  not  entirely  devoid 
of  amusement  or  even  instruction  to  young  men  desir 
ous  of  obtaining  publicity  and  capital.  Howbeit,  the 
Supreme  Court  was  obliged  to  protect  itself  by  procur 
ing  the  legislation  of  his  functions  out  of  his  local 
fingers  into  the  larger  palm  of  its  own  attorney. 

These  various  processes  of  law  and  equity,  which, 
when  exercised  practically  in  the  affairs  of  ordinary 
business,  might  have  occupied  a  few  months'  time, 
dragged,  clung,  retrograded,  or  advanced  slowly  during 
a  period  of  eight  or  nine  years.  But  the  strqng  arms 
of  Biggs  and  Thatcncr  held  POSSESSION,  and  possibly, 
by  the  same  tactics  employed  on  the  other  side,  arrested 
or  delayed  ejectment,  and  so  made  and  sold  quicksilver, 
while  their  opponents  were  spending  gold,  until  Biggs, 
sorely  hit  in  the  interlacings  of  his  armor,  fell  in  the 
lists,  his  check  growing  waxen  and  his  strong  arm  fee 
ble,  and  finding  himself  in  this  sore  condition,  and 
passing,  as  it  were,  made  over  his  share  in  trust  to  his 
comrade,  and  died.  Whereat,  from  that  time  hence 
forward,  Royal  Thatcher  reigned  in  his  stead. 

And  so,  having  anticipated  the  legal  record,  we  will 
go  back  to  the  various  human  interests  that  helped  to 
make  it  up. 

To  begin  with  Roscommon :  To  do  justice  to  his 
later  conduct  and  expressions,  it  must  be  remembered 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  61 

that  when  he  accepted  the  claim  for  the  '  Red-Rock 
Rancho, '  yet  unquestioned,  from  the  hands  of  Garcia, 
he  was  careless,  or  at  least  unsuspicious  of  fraud.  It 
was  not  until  he  had  experienced  the  intoxication  of 
litigation  that  he  felt,  somehow,  that  he  was  a  wronged 
and  defrauded  man,  hut  with  the  obstinacy  of  defrauded 
men,  preferred  to  arraign  some  one  fact  or  individual 
as  the  impelling  cause  of  his  wrong,  rather  than  the 
various  circumstances  that  led  to  it.  To  his  simple 
mind  it  was  made  patent  that  the  *  Blue  Mass  Com 
pany  '  were  making  money  out  of  a  mine  which  he 
claimed,  and  which  was  not  yet  adjudged  to  them. 
Every  dollar  they  took  out  was  a  fresh  count  in  this 
general  indictment.  Every  delay  towards  this  adjust 
ment  of  rights  —  although  made  by  his  own  lawyer  — 
was  a  personal  wrong.  The  mere  fact  that  there  never 
was  nor  had  been  any  quid  pro  quo  for  this  immense 
property  —  that  it 'had  fallen  to  him  for  a  mere  song  — 
only  added  zest  to  his  struggle.  The  possibility  of  his 
losing  this  mere  speculation  affected  him  more  strongly 
than  if  he  had  already  paid  down  the  million  he  ex 
pected  to  get  from  the  mine.  I  do  n't  know  that  I  have 
indicated  as  plainly  as  I  might  that  universal  prefer 
ence  on  the  part  of  mankind  to  get  something  from 
nothing,  and  to  acquire  the  largest  return  for  the  least 
possible  expenditure,  but  I  question  my  right  to  say 
that  Roscommon  was  much  more  reprehensible  than 
his  fellows. 


62  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

But  it  told  upon  him  as  it  did  upon  all  over  whom 
the  spirit  of  the  murdered  Concho  brooded, —  upon  all 
whom  avarice  alternately  flattered  and  tortured.  From 
his  quiet  gains  in  his  legitimate  business,  from  the  lit 
tle  capital  accumulated  through  industry  and  economy, 
he  lavished  thousands  on  this  chimera  of  his  fancy. 
He  grew  grizzled  and  worn  over  his  self-imposed  delu 
sion  ;  he  no  longer  jested  with  his  customers,  regardless 
of  quality  or  station  or  importance;  he  had  cliques  to 
mollify,  enemies  to  placate,  friends  to  reward.  The 
grocery  suffered;  through  giving  food  and  lodgment 
to  clouds  of  unimpeachable  witnesses  before  the  Land 
Commission  and  the  District  Court,  'Mrs.  Ros.'  found 
herself  losing  money.  Even  the  bar  failed ;  there  was 
a  party  of  'Blue  Mass'  employes  who  drank  at  the  oppo 
site  fonda,  and  cursed  the  Roscommon  claim  over  the 
liquor.  The  calm,  mechanical  indifference  with  which 
Roscommon  had  served  his  customers  was  gone.  The 
towel  was  no  longer  used  after  its  perfunctory  fash 
ion;  the  counter  remained  unwiped;  the  disks  of 
countless  glasses  marked  its  surface,  and  indicated 
other  pre-occupation  on  the  part  of  the  proprietor.  The 
keen  grey  eyes  of  the  claimant  of  the  '  Red-Rock  Ran- 
cho '  were  always  on  the  lookout  for  friend  or  enemy. 

Garcia  comes  next.  That  gentleman's  inborn  talent 
for  historic  misrepresentation  culminated  unpleasantly 
through  a  defective  memory ;  a  year  or  two  after  he 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  63 

had  sworn  in  his  application  for  the  '  Rancho,'  being 
engaged  in  another  case,  some  trifling  inconsistency 
was  discovered  in  his  statements,  which  had  the  effect 
of  throwing  the  weight  of  evidence  to  the  party  who 
had  paid  him  most,  but  was  instantly  detected  by  the 
weaker  party.  Garcia's  pre-eminence  as  a  witness,  an 
expert  and  general  historian  began  to  decline.  He  was 
obliged  to  be  corroborated,  and  this  required  a  liberal 
outlay  of  his  fee.  With  the  loss  of  his  credibility  as  a 
witness  bad  habits  supervened.  He  was  frequently 
drunk,  he  lost  his  position,  he  lost  his  house,  and 
Carmen,  removed  to  San  Francisco,  supported  him 
with  her  brush. 

And  this  brings  us  once  more  to  that  pretty  painter 
and  innocent  forger  whose  unconscious  act  bore  such 
baleful  fruit  on  the  barren  hill-sides  of  the  *  Red-Rock 
Rancho,'  and  also  to  a  later  blossom  of  her  life,  that 
opened,  however,  in  kindlier  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHAT    THE    FAIR    HAD    TO    DO    ABOUT    IT. 

The  house  that  Royal  Thatcher  so  informally  quit 
ted  in  his  exodus  to  the  promised  land  of  Biggs  was 
one  of  those  over-sized,  under-calculated  dwellings 
conceived  and  erected  in  the  extravagance  of  the  San 


64  The  Story  of  a  Mine, 

Francisco  builder's  hopes,  and  occupied  finally  in  his 
despair.  Intended  originally  as  the  palace  of  some 
inchoate  California  Aladdin,  it  usually  ended  as  a 
lodging  house  in  which  some  helpless  widow  or  hope 
less  spinster  managed  to  combine  respectability  with 
the  hard  task  of  bread  getting.  Thatcher's  landlady 
was  one  of  the  former  class.  She  had  unfortunately 
survived  not  only  her  husband  but  his  property,  and, 
living  in  some  deserted  chamber,  had,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  Italian  nobility,  let  out  the  rest  of  the  ruin. 
A  tendency  to  dwell  upon  these  facts  gave  her  con 
versation  a  peculiar  significance  on  the  first  of  each 
month.  Thatcher  had  noticed  this  with  the  sensitive 
ness  of  an  impoverished  gentleman.  But  when,  a  few 
days  after  her  lodger's  sudden  disappearance,  a  note 
came  from  him  containing  a  draft  in  noble  excess  of  all 
arrears  and  charges,  the  widow's  heart  was  lifted,  and 
the  rock  smitten  with  the  golden  wand  gushed  benefi 
cence  that  shone  in  a  new  gown  for  the  widow  and  a 
new  suit  for  '  Johnny,'  her  son,  a  new  oil  cloth  in  the 
hall,  better  service  to  the  lodgers,  and,  let  us  be  thank 
ful,  a  kindlier  consideration  for  the  poor  little  black- 
eyed  painter  from  Monterey,  then  dreadfully  behind  in 
her  room  rent.  For,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  calls  upon 
Miss  De  Haro's  scant  purse  by  her  uncle  had  lately 
been  frequent,  perjury  having  declined  in  the  Monte 
rey  market,  through  excessive  and  injudicious  supply, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  65 

until  the  line  of  demarcation  "between  it  and  absolute 
verity  was  so  finely  drawn  tliat  Victor  Garcia  had 
remarked  that  "  he  might  as  well  tell  the  truth  at  once 
and  save  his  soul,  since  the  devil  was  in  the  market." 

Mistress  Plodgitt,  the  landlady,  could  not  resist  the 
desire  to  acquaint  Carmen  De  Haro  with  her  good 
fortune.  "  He  was  always  a  friend  of  yours,  my  dear, 
—  and  I  know  him  to  "be  a  gentleman  that  would 
never  let  a  poor  widow  suffer ;  and  see  what  he  says 
about  you ! "  Here  she  produced  Thatcher's  note  and 
read :  "  Tell  my  little  neighbor  that  I  shall  come  back 
soon  to  carry  her  and  her  sketching  tools  off  by  force, 
and  I  shall  not  lot  her  return  until  she  has  caught  the 
black  mountains  and  the  red  rocks  she  used  to  talk 
about,  and  put  the  '  Blue  Mass '  mill  in  the  foreground 
of  the  picture  I  shall  order." 

"What  is  this,  little  one  ?  Surely,  Carmen,  thou 
needot  not  blush  at  this,  thy  first  grand  offer.  Holy 
Virgin !  is  it  of  a  necessity  that  thou  shouldst  stick 
the  wrong  end  of  thy  brush  in  thy  mouth,  and  then 
drop  it  in  thy  lap  ?  Or  was  it  taught  theo  by  the  good 
Sisters  at  the  convent  to  stride  in  that  boyish  fashion 
to  the  side  of  thy  elders  and  snatch  from  their  hands 
the  missive  thou  wouldst  read  ?  More  of  this  we  would 
know,  0  Carmen,  —  smallest  of  brunettes,  —  speak, 
little  one,  even  in  thine  own  melodious  speech,  that  I 
may  commend  thee  and  thy  rare  discretion  to  my  own 
fair  country-women.  5 


66  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Alas,  neither  the  present  chronicler  nor  Mistress 
Plodgitt  got  any  further  information  from  the  prudent 
Carmen,  and  must  fain  speculate  upon  certain  facts 
that  were  already  known. 

Mistress  Carmen's  little  room  was  opposite  to 
Thatcher's,  and  once  or  twice,  the  doors  being  open, 
Thatcher  had  a  glimpse  across  the  passage  of  a  black- 
haired  and  a  sturdy,  boyish  little  figure  in  a  great  blue 
apron,  perched  on  a  stool  before  an  easel,  and  on  the 
other  hand,  Carmen  had  often  been  conscious  of  the 
fumes  of  a  tobacco  pipe  penetrating  her  cloistered 
seclusion,  and  had  seen  across  the  passage,  vaguely 
enveloped  in  the  same  nicotine  cloud,  an  American 
Olympian,  in  a  rocking  chair,  with  his  feet  on  the 
mantel  shelf.  They  had  once  or  twice  met  on  the 
staircase,  on  which  occasion  Thatcher  had  greeted  her 
with  a  word  or  two  of  respectful  yet  half-humorous 
courtesy, —  a  courtesy  which  never  really  offends  a 
true  woman,  although  it  often  piques  her  self-aplomb 
'by  the  slight  assumption  of  superiority  in  the  humor 
ist.  A  woman  is  quick  to  recognize  the  fact  that  the 
great  and  more  dangerous  passions  are  always  serious, 
and  may  be  excused  if  in  self-respect  she  is  often 
induced  to  try  if  there  be  not  somewhere  under  the 
skin  of  this  laughing  Mercutio  the  flesh  and  blood  of 
a  Romeo.  Thatcher  was  by  nature  a  defender  and 
protector ;  weakness,  and  weakness  alone,  stirred  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  G7 

depths  of  Ins  tenderness, —  often,  I  fear,  only  through 
its  half-humorous  aspects, —  and  on  this  plane  he  was 
pleased  to  place  women  and  children.  I  mention  this 
fact  for  the  benefit  of  the  more  youthful  members  of 
my  species,  a'nd  am  satisfied  that  an  unconditional 
surrender  and  the  complete  laying  down  at  the  feet  of 
Beauty  of  all  strong  masculinity  is  a  cheap  Gajiicism 
that  is  untranslatable  to  most  women  worthy  the  win 
ning.  For  a  woman  must  always  look  up  to  the  man 
she  truly  loves, —  even  if  she  has  to  go  down  on  her 
knees  to  do  it. 

Only  the  masculine  reader  will  infer  from  this  that 
Carmen  was  in  love  with  Thatcher ;  the  more  critical 
and  analytical  feminine  eye  will  see  nothing  herein 
that  might  not  have  happened  consistently  with  friend 
ship.  For  Thatcher  was  no  sentimentalist ;  he  had 
hardly  paid  a  compliment  to  the  girl, —  even  in  the 
unspoken  but  most  delicate  form  of  attention.  There 
were  days  when  his  room  door  was  closed ;  there  were 
days  succeeding  these  blanks  when  he  met  her  as 
frankly  and  naturally  as  if  he  had  seen  her  yesterday. 
Indeed,  on  those  days  following  his  flight  the  simple- 
minded  Carmen,  being  aware  —  heaven  knows  how  — • 
that  he  had  not  opened  his  door  during  that  period, 
and  fearing  sickness,  sudden  death,  or  perhaps  suicide, 
by  her  appeals  to  the  landlady,  assisted  unwittingly  in 
discovering  his  flight  and  defection.  As  she  was  for 


68  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

a  few  moments  as  indignant  as  Mrs.  Plodgi't,  it  is 
evident  tliat  she  had  but  little  sympathy  with  the 
delinquent.  And  besides,  hitherto  she  had  known 
only  Concho,  her  earliest  friend,  and  was  true  to  his 
memory,  as  against  all  Americanos,  who::i  sho  firmly 
believed  to  be  his  murderers. 

So  she  dismissed  the  offer  and  the  man  from  her 
mind,  and  went  back  to  her  painting, —  a  fancy  por 
trait  of  the  good  Padre  Junipcro  Scrra,  a  groat  mis 
sionary,  who,  haply  for  the  integrity  cf  his  bones  and 
character,  died  some  hundred  years  before  the  Ameri 
cans  took  possession  of  California.  The  picture  was 
fair  but  unsaleable,  and  she  began  to  thin1:  seriously 
of  sign  painting,  which  was  then  much  more  popular 
and  marketable.  An  unfinished  head  of  San  Juan  de 
Hautista,  artificially  framed  in  clouds,  she  disposed  of 
to  a  prominent  druggist  for  $50,  where  it  did  good 
service  as  exhibiting  the  effect  of  four  bottles  of 
'Jones's  Freckle  Eradicator,'  and  in  a  pleasant  and 
unobtrusive  way  revived  the  memory  of  the  saint. 
Still,  she  felt  wer.ry  and  was  growing  despondent,  and 
had  a  longing  for  the  good  Sisters  and  the  blameless 
lethargy  of  conventual  life,  and  then 

He  came ! 

But  not  as  the  Prince  should  come,  on  a  white 
charger,  to  carry  away  this  cruelly-abused  and  en 
chanted  damsel.  lie  was  sun-burned,  he  was  bearded 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  69 

like  '  the  pard ; '  lie  was  a  little  careless  as  to  his 
dress,  and  pre-occupied  in  his  ways.  But  his  mouth 
and  eyes  were  the  same ;  and  when  he  repeated  in  his 
old  frank,  half-mischievous  way  the  invitation  of  his 
letter,  poor  little  Carmen  could  only  hesitate  and 
blush. 

A  thought  struck  him  and  sent  the  color  to  his  face. 
Your  gentleman  born  is  always  as  modest  as  a  woman. 
He  ran  down  stairs,  and  seizing  the  widowed  Plodgitt, 
said  hastily : 

"  You  're  just  killing  yourself  here.  Take  a  change. 
Come  down  to  Monterey  for  a  day  or  two  with  me, 
and  bring  Miss  DC  Haro  with  you  for  company." 

The  old  lady  recognized  the  situation.  Thatcher 
was  now  a  man  of  vast  possibilities.  In  all  maternal 
daughters  of  Eve  there  is  the  slightest  bit  of  the  cha- 
perone  and  match-maker.  It  is  the  last  way  of  reviv 
ing  the  past. 

She  consented,  and  Carmen  De  Haro  could  not 
well  refuse. 

The  ladies  found  the  c  Blue  Mass '  mills  very  much 
as  Thatcher  had  previously  delivered  it  to  them,  "  a 
trifle  rough  and  mannish."  But  he  made  over  to 
them  the  one  tenement  reserved  for  himself,  and  slept 
with  his  men,  or  more  likely  under  the  trees.  At  first 
Mrs.  Plodgitt  missed  gas  and  running  water,  and  these 
several  convenience^  of  civilization,  among  which  I 


70  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

fear  may  be  mentioned  sheets  and  pillow  cases ;  but  the 
balsam  of  the  mountain  air  soothed  her  neuralgia  and 
her  temper.  As  for  Carmen,  she  rioted  in  tho  unlim 
ited  license  of  her  absolute  freedom  from  conventional 
restraint  and  the  indulgence  of  her  child-like  impulses. 
She  scoured  the  ledges  far  and  wide  alone ;  she  dipped 
into  dark  copses,  and  scrambled  over  sterile  patches 
of  chemisal,  and  came  back  laden  with  the  spoil  of 
buckeye  blossoms,  manzanita  berries  and  laurel.  But 
she  would  not  make  a  sketch  of  the  '  Blue  Mass  Com 
pany's  '  mills  on  a  Mcrcator's  projection  —  something 
that  could  be  afterwards  lithographed  or  chromoed, 
with  the  mills  turning  out  tons  of  quicksilver  through 
the  energies  of  a  happy  and  picturesque  assemblage 
of  miners  —  even  to  please  her  padrone,  Don  Royal 
Thatcher.  On  the  contrary,  she  made  a  study  of  the 
ruins  of  the  crumbled  and  decayed  red-rock  furnace, 
with  the  black  mountain  above  it,  and  the  light  of  a 
dying  camp  fire  shining  upon  it,  and  the  dull-red  exca 
vations  in  the  ledge.  But  even  this  did  not  satisfy 
her  until  she  had  made  some  alterations;  and  when 
she  finally  brought  her  finished  study  to  Don  Royal, 
she  looked  at  him  a  little  defiantly.  Thatcher  admired 
honestly,  and  then  criticised  a  little  humorously  and 
dishonestly.  "  But  couldn't  you,  for  a  consideration, 
put  up  a  sign-board  on  that  rock  with  the  inscription^ 
'  Road  to  the  Blue  Mass  Company's  new  mills  to  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  71 

right,'  and  combine  business  with  art?  That's  the 
fault  of  you  geniuses.  But  what 's  this  blanketed  fig 
ure  doing  here,  lying  before  the  furnace  ?  You  never 
saw  one  of  my  miners  there, —  and  a  Mexican,  too,  by 
his  scrape."  "That,"  quoth  Mistress  Carmen,  coolly, 
"  was  put  in  to  fill  up  the  foreground, —  I  wanted  some 
thing  there  to  balance  the  picture."  "But,"  continued 
Thatcher,  dropping  into  unconscious  admiration  again, 
"  it 's  drawn  to  the  life.  Tell  me,  Miss  De  Ilaro,  before 
I  ask  the  aid  and  counsel  of  Mrs.  Plodgitt,  who  is  my 
hated  rival,  and  your  lay  figure  and  model? "  "  Oh," 
said  Carmen,  with  a  little  sigh,  "It's  only  poor  Con- 
cho."  "  And  where  is  Concho?"  (a  little  impatient 
ly.)  "He's  dead,  Don  Royal."  "Dead?"  "Of 
a  verity, —  very  dcad,^-  murdered  by  your  country 
men."  "I  see, —  and  you  know  him?"  "He  was 
my  friend." 

"Oh!" 

"Truly." 

"But"  (wickedly),  "isn't  this  a  rather  ghastly 
advertisement  —  outside  of  an  illustrated  newspaper  — 
of  my  property?" 

"  Ghastly,  Don  Royal.     Look  you,  he  sleeps." 

"Ay"  (in  Spanish),  "as  the  dead." 

Carmen  (crossing  herself  hastily),  "After  the 
fashion  of  the  dead." 

They  were  both  feeling  uncomfortable.     Carmen 


72  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

was  shivering.  But,  being  a  woman,  and  tactful,  she 
recovered  her  head  first.  "  It  is  a  study  for  myself, 
Don  Royal;  I  shall  make  you  another." 

And  she  slipped  away,  as  she  thought,  out  of  the 
subject  and  his  presence. 

But  she  was  mistaken;  in  the  evening  he  renewed 
the  conversation.  Carmen  began  to  fence,  not  from 
cowardice  or  deceit,  as  the  masculine  reader  would 
readily  infer,  but  from  some  wonderful  feminine  instinct 
that  told  her  to  be  cautious.  But  he  got  from  her  the 
fact,  to  him  before  unknown,  that  she  was  the  niece 
of  his  main  antagonist,  and,  being  a  gentleman,  so 
redoubled  his  attentions  and  his  courtesy  that  Mrs. 
Plodgitt  made  up  her  mind  that  it  was  a  foregone  con 
clusion,  and  seriously  reflected  as  to  what  she  should 
wear  on  the  momentous  occasion.  But  that  night  poor 
Carmen  cried  herself  to  sloop,  resolving  that  she  would 
hereafter  cast  aside  her  wicked  uncle  for  this  good- 
hearted  Americano,  yet  never  once  connected  her  inno 
cent  penmanship  with  the  deadly  feud  between  them. 
Women  —  the  best  of  them  —  arc  strong  as  to  collat 
eral  facts,  swift  cf  deduction,  but  vague  as  children 
are  to  the  exact  statement  or  recognition  of  premises. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  Carmen  had  never 
thought  of  connecting  any  act  of  hers  with  the  claims 
of  her  uncle,  and  the  circumstance  of  the  signature 
she  had  totally  forgotten. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  73 

The  masculine  reader  will  now  understand  Carmen's 
confusion  and  blushes,  and  believe  himself  an  ass  to 
have  thought  them  a  confession  of  original  affection. 
The  feminine  reader  will,  by  this  time,  become  satisfied 
that  the  deceitful  minx's  sole  idea  was  to  gain  the 
affections  of  Thatcher.  And  really  I  do  n't  kno\y  who 
is  right. 

Nevertheless  she  painted  a  sketch  for  Thatcher, — 
v/hich  now  adorns  the  Company's  office  in  Ban  Fran 
cisco,  in  which  the  property  is  laid  out  in  pleading 
geometrical  lines,  and  the  rosy  promise  of  the  future 
instinct  in  every  touch  of  the  brush.  Then,  having 
earned  her  '  wage,'  as  she  believed,  she  became  some 
what  cold  and  shy  to  Thatcher.  Whereat  that  gentle 
man  redoubled  his  attentions,  seeing  only  in  her  pres 
ence  a  certain  meprise,  which  concerned  her  more 
than  himself.  The  niece  of  his  enemy  meant  nothing 
more  to  him  than  an  interesting  gii'l, —  to  bo  protected 
always,  —  to 'be  feared,  never.  But  even  suspicion 
may  be  insidiously  placed  in  noble  minds. 

Mistress  Plodgitt,  thus  early  estopped  of  match 
making,  of  course  put  the  blame  on  her  own  sex,  and 
went  over  to  the  stronger  side  —  the  man's. 

"It's  a  great  pity  gals  should  be  so  curious,"  she 
said,  sotto  voce,  to  Thatcher,  when  Carmen  was  in  one 
of  her  sullen  moods.  "  Yet  I  s'pose  it 's  in  hor  bloccl. 
Them  Spaniards  is  always  revengeful, —  like  the  Eye- 
talians." 


74  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Thatoher  honestly  looked  his  surprise. 

"  Why,  do  n't  you  soe,  she 's  thinking  how  all  those 
lands  mijht  have  been  her  uncle's  but  for  you.  And 
instead  of  trying  to  be  sweot  and — "  here  she  stopped 
to  cough. 

"  Good  God ! "  said  Thatcher  in  great  concern,  "  I 
never  thought  of  that."  He  stopped  for  a  moment, 
and  then  added  with  decision,  "I  can't  believe  it;  it 
isn't  like  her." 

Mrs.  P.  was  piqued.  She  walked  away,  delivering 
however,  this  Parthian  arrow :  "Well,  I  hope  ''taint 
nothing  worse" 

Thatcher  chuckled,  then  felt  uneasy.  When  he 
next  met  Carmen,  she  found  his  grey  eyes  fixed  on 
hers  with  a  curious,  half-inquisitorial  look  she  had 
never  noticed  before.  This  only  added  fuel  to  the  fire. 
Forgetting  their  relations  of  host  and  guest,  she  was 
absolutely  rude.  Thatcher  was  quiet  but  watchful ; 
got  the  Plodgitt  to  bed  early,  and,  under  cover  of  show 
ing  a  moon-light  view  of  the  'Lost  Chance  Mill,' 
decoyed  Carmen  out  of  ear-shot,  as  far  as  the  disman 
tled  furnace. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Miss  De  Haro;  have  I 
offended  you?" 

Miss  Carmen  was  not  aware  that  anything  was  the 
matter.  If  Don  Royal  preferred  old  friends,  whoce 
loyalty  of  course  he  knew,  and  who  were  above  speak 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  75 

ing  ill  against  a  gentleman  in  his  adversity — (oh, 
Carmen !  fie !)  if  lie  preferred  their  company  to  later 
friends  —  why — (the  masculine  reader  will  observe 
this  tremendous  climax  and  tremble) — why  she  didn't 
know  why  he  should  blame  her. 

They  turned  and  faced  each  other.  The  conditions 
for  a  perfect  misunderstanding  could  not  have  been 
better  arranged  between  two  people.  Thatcher  was 
a  masculine  reasoner,  Carmen  a  feminine  feeler, —  if 
I  may  be  pardoned  the  expression.  Thatcher  wanted 
to  get  at  certain  facts,  and  argue  therefrom.  Carmen 
wanted  to  get  at  certain  feelings,  and  then  fit  the  facts 
to  them. 

"  But  I  am  not  blaming  you,  Miss  Carmen,"  he 
said  gravely.  "  It  was  stupid  in  me  to  confront  you 
here  with  the  property  claimed  by  your  uncle  and 
occupied  by  me,  but  it  was  a  mistake,  —  no!"  he 
added  hastily,  "it  was  not  a  mistake.  You  knew  it, 
and  I  did  n't.  You  overlooked  it  before  you  came, 
and  I  was  too  glad  to  overlook  it  after  you  were  here." 

"Of  course,"  said  Carmen  pettishly,  "I  am  the 
only  one  to  be  blamed.  It's  like  you  men!  (Mem. 
She  was  just  fifteen,  and  uttered  this  awful  resume  of 
experience  just  as  if  it  had  n't  been  taught  to  her  in 
her  cradle.) 

Feminine  generalities  always  stagger  a  man.  That 
cher  said  nothing.  Carmen  became  more  enraged. 


76  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  Why  did  you  want  to  take  Undo  Victor's  prop 
erty,  then?"  she  asked  triumphantly. 

"I  do  n't  know  that  it  is  your  uncle's  property." 

"You  —  don't — know?  Have  you  seen  the  appli 
cation  with  Governor  Micheltorena's  indorsement? 
Have  you  heard  the  witnesses?"  she  said  passion 
ately. 

"  Signatures  may  be  forged  and  witnesses  lie,"  said 
Thatcher  quietly. 

"  What  is  it  you  call  '  forged '  ?  " 

Thatcher  instantly  recalled  the  fact  that  the  Spanish 
language  held  no  synonym  for  '  forgery.'  The  act 
was  apparently  an  invention  of  el  Diablo  Americano. 
So  he  said,  with  a  slight  smile  in  his  kindly  eyes : 

"Anybody  wicked  enough  and  dexterous  enough 
can  imitate  another's  handwriting.  When  this  is 
used  to  benefit  fraud,  we  call  it  'forgery.'  I  beg  your 
pardon, —  Miss  De  Haro,  Miss  Carmen, —  what  is  the 
matter?" 

She  had  suddenly  lapsed  against  a  tree,  quite  help 
less,  nerveless,  and  with  staring  eyes  fixed  on  his.  As 
yet  an  embryo  woman,  inexperienced  and  ignorant, 
the  sex's  instinct  was  potential ;  she  had  in  one  plunge 
fathomed  all  that  his  reason  had  been  years  groping 
for. 

Thatcher  saw  only  that  she  was  pained,  that  she  was 
helpless:  that  was  enough.  "It  is  possible  that  your 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  77 

uncle  may  have  been  deceived,"  he  began;  "many 
honest  men  have  been  fooled  by  clever  but  deceitful 
tricksters,  men  and  women " 

"  Stop  !     Madre  de  Dios!     WILL  YOU  STOP  ?  " 

Thatcher  for  an  instant  recoiled  from  the  flashing 
eyes  and  white  face  of  the  little  figure  that  had,  with 
menasing  and  clenched  baby  fingers,  strode  to  his 
side.  He  stopped.  "  Where  is  this  application, — this 
forgery?  "  she  asked.  "  Show  it  to  me !" 

Thatcher  felt  relieved,  and  smiled  the  superior 
smile  of  our  sex  over  feminine  ignorance.  **  You 
c  :>uld  hardly  expect  me  to  be  trusted  with  your  uncle's 
vouchers.  His  papers  cf  course  are  in  the  hands  of 
his  counsel." 

"And  when  can  I  leave  this  placo?"  die  asked 
paisionatoly. 

"  If  you  consult  my  wishes  you  will  stay,  if  only 
long  enough  to  forgive  me.  But  if  I  have  offended 
you  unknowingly,  and  you  are  implacable " 

"I  can  go  tomorrow  at  sunrise  if  I  like?" 

"As  you  will,"  returned  Thatcher  gravely. 

"  Gracias,  Senor" 

They  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house,  Thatcher 
with  a  masculine  sense  of  being  unreasonably  afflicted, 
Carmen  with  a  woman's  instinct  of  being  hopelessly 
crushed.  No  word  was  spoken  until  they  reached  the 
door.  Then  Carmen  suddenly,  in  her  old,  impulsive 


78  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

way,  and  in  a  child-like  treble,  sang  out  merrily, 
"Good  night,  0  Don  lloyal,  and  pleasant  dreams. 
Hasta  martana" 

Thatcher  stood  dumb  and  astounded  at  this  capri 
cious  girl.  She  saw  his  mystification  instantly.  "It  is 
for  the  old  Cat ! "  she  whispered,  jerking  her  thumb 
over  her  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  sleeping  Mrs. 
P.  "Goodnight,— go!" 

He  went  to  give  orders  for  a  peon  to  attend  the 
ladies  and  their  equipage  the  next  day.  He  awoke 
to  find  Miss  Do  Haro  gone,  with  her  escort,  towards 
Monterey.  And  without  the  Plodgitt. 

He  could  not  conceal  his  surprise  from  the  latter 
lady.  She,  left  alone, —  a  not  altogether  unavailaMe 
victim  to  the  wiles  of  our  sex, —  was  embarrassed. 
But  not  so  much  that  she  could  not  say  to  Thatchor : 
"I  told  jou  so, — gone  to  her  uncle  *  *  To  tell 
him  all!  " 

"All.  D  —  n  it,  what  can  she  tell  him?"  roared 
Thatcher,  stung  out  of  his  self-control. 

"  Nothing,  I  hope,  that  she  should  not,"  said  Mrs. 
P.,  and  chastely  retired. 

She  was  right.  Miss  Carmen  posted  to  Monterey, 
running  her  horse  nearly  off  its  legs  to  do  it,  and 
then  sent  back  her  beast  and  escort,  saying  she  would 
rejoin  Mrs.  Plodgitt  by  steamer  at  San  Francisco. 
Then  she  went  boldly  to  the  law  office  of  Saponaceous 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  79 

Wood,  District  Attorney  and  whilom  solicitor  of  her 
uncle. 

With  the  majority  of  masculine  Monterey  Miss 
Carmen  was  known  and  respectfully  admired,  despite 
the  infelix  reputation  of  her  kinsman.  Mr.  Wood 
was  glad  to  see  her,  and  awkwardly  gallant.  Miss 
Carmen  was  cool  and  business-like ;  she  had  come 
from  her  uncle  to  '  regard 1  the  papers  in  the  *  Red- 
Rock  Rancho '  case.  They  were  instantly  produced. 
Carmen  turned  to  the  application  for  the  grant.  Her 
cheek  paled  slightly.  With  her  clear  memory  and 
wonderful  fidelity  of  perception  she  could  not  be  mis 
taken.  TJie  signature  of  Micheltorena  was  in  her 
own  handwriting  ! 

Yet  she  looked  up  to  the  lawyer  with  a  smile : 
"  May  I  take  these  papers  for  an  hour  to  my  uncle?  " 

Even  an  older  and  better  man  than  the  District 
Attorney  could  not  have  resisted  those  drooping  lids 
and  that  gentle  voice. 

"Certainly." 

"I  will  return  them  in  an  hour." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  within  the  hour 
dropped  the  papers  and  a  little  courtesy  to  her  uncle's 
legal  advocate,  and  that  night  took  the  steamer  to  San 
Francisco. 

The  next  morning  Victor  Garcia,  a  little  the  worse 
for  the  previous  night's  dissipation,  reeled  into  Wood's 


80  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

office.  "  I  have  fears  for  my  niece  Carmen.  She  is 
with  the  enemy,"  he  said  thickly.  "  Look  you  at  this ." 

It  was  an  anonymous  letter  (in  Mrs.  Plodgitt's  own 
awl: ward  fist)  advising  him  of  the  fact  that  his  niece 
was  bought  by  the  enemy,  and  cautioning  him  against 
her. 

"Impossible,"  said  the  lawyer;  "it  was  only  last 
week  she  sent  thee  $50." 

Victor  blushed,  even  through  his  ensanguined 
cheeks,  and  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"Besides,"  added  the  lawyer  coolly,  "she  has  been 
here  to  examine  the  papers  at  thy  request,  and  returned 
them  cf  yesterday." 

Victor  gasped  —  "And-you-you-gavo  them  to  her  ?  " 

44  Of  course !  " 

"All?     Even  the  application  and  the  signature?" 

"  Certainly, —  you  sent  her." 

"Sent  her?  The  devil's  own  daughter?"  shrieked 
Garcia.  "  No !  A  hundred  million  times,  no  !  Quick, 
before  it  is  too  late.  Give  to  me  the  papers." 

Mr.  Wood  reproduced  the  file.  Garcia  ran  over  it 
with  trembling  fingers  until  at  last  he  clutched  the 
fateful  document.  Not  content  with  opening  it  and 
glancing  at  its  text  and  signature,  he  took  it  to  the 
window. 

"It  is  the  same,"  he  muttered  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Wood  sharply.  "  The 
papers  are  all  there.  You  're  a  fool,  Victor  Garcia ! " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  81 

And  so  lie  was.  And,  for  tlie  matter  of  that,  so 
was  Mr.  Saponaceous  Wood,  of  counsel. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Do  Haro  returned  to  San  Fran 
cisco  and  resumed  her  work.  A  day  or  two  later  she 
was  joined  by  her  landlady.  Mrs.  P.  has  too  large 
a  nature  to  permit  an  anonymous  letter,  written  by 
her  own  hand,  to  stand  between  her  and  her  demeanor 
to  her  little  lodger.  So  she  coddled  her  and  flattered 
her  and  depicted  in  slightly  exaggerated  colors  the 
grief  of  Don  Royal  at  her  sudden  departure.  All  of 
which  Miss  Carmen  received  in  a  demure,  kitten-like 
way,  but  still  kept  quietly  at  her  work.  In  due  time 
Don  Royal's  order  was  completed ;  still  she  had  lei 
sure  and  inclination  enough  to  add  certain  touches  to 
her  ghastly  sketch  of  the  crumbling  furnace. 

Nevertheless,  as  Don  Royal  did  not  return,  through 
excess  of  business,  Mrs.  Plodgitt  turned  an  honest 
penny  by  letting  his  room,  temporarily,  to  two  quiet 
Mexicans,  who,  but  for  a  beastly  habit  of  cigarrito 
smoking  which  tainted  the  whole  house,  were  fair 
enough  lodgers.  If  they  failed  in  making  the  acquaint 
ance  of  their  fair  country-woman,  Miss  De  Haro,  it 
was  through  that  lady's  preoccupation  in  her  own 
work,  and  not  through  their  ostentatious  endeavors. 

"Miss  DC  Haro  is  peculiar,"  explained  the  politic 
Mrs.  Plodgitt  to  her  guests;  "she  makes  no  acquaint 
ances,  which  I  consider  bad  for  her  business.  If  it 


82  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

had  not  boon  for  mo,  she  would  not  have  known  Royal 
Thatcher,  the  great  quicksilver  miner, —  and  had  his 
order  for  a  picture  of  his  mine  !  " 

The  two  foreign  gentlemen  exchanged  glances. 
One  said,  "All,  God!  this  is  bad,"  and  the  other,  "  It 
is  not  possible ; "  and  then,  when  the  landlady's  back 
was  turned,  introduced  themselves  with  a  skeleton 
key  into  the  then  vacant  bed-room  and  studio  of  their 
fair  country-woman,  who  was  absent  sketching.  "  Thou 
obscrvest,"  said  Mr.  Pedro,  refugee,  to  Miguel,  ex- 
ecclesiastic,  "that  this  Americano  is  all  powerful,  and 
that  this  Victor,  drunkard  as  ho  is,  is  right  in  his  sus 
picions." 

"Of  a  verity,  yes,"  replied  Miguel,  "  thou  dost 
remember  it  was  Jo  vita  Castro  who,  for  her  Ameri 
cano  lover,  betrayed  the  Sobricnte  claim.  It  is  only 
with  us,  my  Pedro,  that  the  Mexican  spirit,  the  real 
God  and  Liberty,  yet  lives !  " 

They  shook  hands  nobly  and  with  sentimental  fer 
vor,  and  then  went  to  work,  i.  e.,  the  rummaging 
over  the  trunks,  drawers,  and  portc-manteaus  of  the 
poor  little  painter,  Carmen  De  Haro,  and  even  ripped 
up  the  mattress  of  her  virginal  cot.  But  they  found 
not  what  they  sought. 

"  What  is  that  yonder  on  the  easel,  covered  with  a 
cloth  ?  "  said  Miguel :  "  it  is  a  trick  of  these  artists  to 
put  their  valuables  together." 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  83 

Pedro  strode  to  the  easel  and  tore  away  the  muslin 
curtain  that  veiled  it ;  then  uttered  a  shriek  that 
appalled  his  comrade  and  brought  him  to  his  side. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  said  Miguel  hastily,  "  are 
you  trying  to  alarm  the  house  ?  " 

The  ex-vaquero  was  trembling  like  a  child.  "  Look," 
he  said  hoarsely,  "look,  do  you  see?  It  is  the  hand 
of  God,"  and  fainted  on  the  floor! 

Miguel  looked.  It  was  Carmen's  partly-finished 
sketch  of  the  deserted  furnace.  The  figure  of  Con- 
cho,  thrown  out  strongly  by  the  camp  fire,  occupied 
the  left  foreground.  But  to  balance  her  picture  she 
had  evidently  been  obliged  to  introduce  another, —  the 
face  and  figure  of  Pedro,  on  all  fours,  creeping  towards 
the  sleeping  man. 


PART  III.— IN  CONGRESS. 

CHAPTER  X. 

WHO  LOBBIED  FOR  IT. 

It  was  a  midsummer's  day  in  Washington.  Even 
at  early  morning,  while  the  sun  was  yet  level  with  the 
faces  of  pedestrians  in  its  broad,  shadeless  avenues, 
it  was  insufferably  hot.  Later  the  avenues  themselves 


84  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

shone  like  the  diverging  rays  of  another  sun, —  the 
Capitol, —  a  thing  to  be  feared  by  the  naked  eye. 
Later  yet  it  grew  hotter,  and  then  a  mist  arose  from 
the  Potomac,  and  blotted  out  the  blazing  arch  above, 
and  presently  piled  up  along  the  horizon  delusive 
thunder  clouds,  that  spent  their  strength  and  substance 
elsewhere,  and  left  it  hotter  than  before.  Towards 
evening  the  sun  came  out  invigorated,  having  cleared 
the  heavenly  brow  of  perspiration,  but  leaving  its  fever 
unabated. 

The  city  was  deserted.  The  few  who  remained 
apparently  buried  themselves  from  the  garish  light  of 
day  in  some  dim,  cloistered  recess  of  shop,  hotel,  or 
restaurant ;  and  the  perspiring  stranger,  dazed  by  the 
outer  glare,  who  broke  in  upon  their  quiet,  sequestered 
repose,  confronted  collarless  and  coatless  specters  of 
the  past,  with  fans  in  their  hands,  who,  after  dreamily 
going  through  some  perfunctory  business,  immedi 
ately  retired  to  sleep  after  the  stranger  had  gone. 
Congressmen  and  Senators  had  long  since  returned  to 
their  several  constituencies  with  the  various  informa 
tion  that  the  country  was  going  to  ruin,  or  that  the 
outlook  never  was  more  hopeful  and  cheering,  as  the 
tastes  of  their  constituency  indicated.  A  few  Cabinet 
officers  still  lingered,  having  by  this  time  become  con 
vinced  that  they  could  do  nothing  their  own  way,  or 
indeed  in  anyway  but  the  old  way,  and  getting  gloomily 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  85 

resigned  to  their  situation.  A  body  of  learned,  culti 
vated  men,  representing  the  highest  legal  tribunal  in 
the  land,  still  lingered  in  a  vague  idea  of  earning  the 
scant  salary  bestowed  upon  them  by  the  economical 
founders  of  the  Government,  and  listened  patiently  to 
the  arguments  of  counsel,  whose  fees  for  advocacy  of 
claims  before  them  would  have  paid  the  life  income  of 
half  the  bench.  There  was  Mr.  Attorney  General  and 
his  assistants  still  protecting  the  Government's  millions 
from  rapacious  hands,  and  drawing  the  yearly  public 
pittance  that  their  wealthier  private  antagonists  would 
have  scarce  given  as  a  retainer  to  their  junior  counsel. 
The  little  standing  army  of  departmental  employes, — 
the  helpless  victims  of  the  most  senseless  and  idiotic 
form  of  discipline  the  world  has  known, —  a  disci 
pline  so  made  up  of  caprice,  expediency,  cowardice, 
and  tyranny  that  its  reform  meant  revolution,  not 
to  be  tolerated  by  legislators  and  law-givers,  or  a  des 
potism  in  which  half  a  dozen  accidentally-chosen  men 
interpreted  their  prejudices  or  preferences  as  being 
that  Reform.  Administration  after  administration  and 
Party  after  Party  had  persisted  in  their  desperate 
attempts  to  fit  the  youthful  colonial  garments,  made  by 
our  Fathers  after  a  by-gone  fashion,  over  the  expanded 
limits  and  generous  outline  of  a  matured  nation.  There 
were  patches  here  and  there ;  there  were  grievous 
rents  and  holes  here  and  there  \  there  were  ludicrous 


86  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

and  painful  exposures  of  growing  limbs  everywhere ; 
and  the  Party  in  Power  and  the  Party  out  of  Power 
could  do  nothing  but  mend  and  patch,  and  revamp  and 
cleanse  and  scour,  and  occasionally,  in  the  wildness  of 
despair,  suggest  even  the  cutting  off  the  rebellious 
limbs  that  persisted  in  growing  beyond  the  swaddling 
clothes  of  its  infancy. 

It  was  a  capital  of  Contradictions  and  Inconsisten 
cies.  At  one  end  of  the  Avenue  sat  the  responsible 
High  Keeper  of  the  military  honor,  valor,  and  war 
like  prestige  of  a  great  nation,  without  the  power  to 
pay  his  own  troops  their  legal  dues  until  some  selfish 
quarrel  between  Party  and  Party  was  settled.  Hard 
by  sat  another  Secretary,  who.se  established  functions 
seemed  to  be  the  misrepresentation  of  the  nation  abroad 
by  the  least  characteristic  of  its  classes,  the  politi 
cians, —  and  only  then  when  they  had  been  defeated 
as  politicians,  and  when  their  constituents  had  declared 
them  no  longer  worthy  to  be  even  their  representatives. 
This  National  Absurdity  was  only  equaled  by  another, 
wherein  an  Ex-Politician  was  for  four  years  expected 
to  uphold  the  honor  of  a  flag  of  a  great  nation  over 
an  ocean  he  had  never  tempted,  with  a  discipline  the 
rudiments  of  which  he  could  scarcely  acquire  before 
he  was  removed,  or  his  term  of  office  expired,  receiv 
ing  his  orders  from  a  superior  officer  as  ignorant  of 
his  special  duties  as  himself,  and  subjected  to  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  87 

revision  of  a  Congress  cognizant  of  him  only  as  a  politi 
cian.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  Avenue  was  another 
department  so  vast  in  its  extent  and  so  varied  in  its 
functions  that  few  of  the  really  great  practical  work 
ers  of  the  land  would  have  accepted  its  responsibility 
for  ten  times  its  salary,  but  which  the  most  perfect 
constitution  in  the  world  handed  over  to  men  who 
were  obliged  to  make  it  a  stopping  stone  to  future  pre 
ferment.  There  was  another  department,  more  sug 
gestive  of  its  financial  functions  from  the  occasional 
extravagances  or  economies  exhibited  in  its  pay-rolls, 
—  successive  Congresses  having  taken  other  matters 
out  of  its  hands, —  presided  over  by  an  official  who 
bore  the  title  and  responsibility  of  the  Custodian  and 
Disburser  of  the  Nation's  Purse,  and  received  a  salary 
that  a  bank-President  would  have  .sniffed  at.  For  it 
was  part  of  this  Constitutional  Inconsistency  and  Ad 
ministrative  Absurdity  that  in  the  matter  of  honor, 
justice,  fidelity  to  trust,  and  even  business  integrity, 
the  official  was  always  expected  to  be  the  superior  of 
the  Government  he  represented.  Yet  the  crowning 
Inconsistency  was  that,  from  time  to  time,  it  was  sub 
mitted  to  the  sovereign  people  to  declare  if  these  vari 
ous  Inconsistencies  were  not  really  the  perfect  expres 
sion  of  the  most  perfect  Government  the  world  had 
known.  And  it  is  to  be  recorded  that  the  unanimous 
voices  of  Representative,  Orator,  and  Unfettered  Poetry 
were  that  it  was ! 


88  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Even  the  public  press  lent  itself  to  the  Great  Incon 
sistency.  It  was  as  clear  as  crystal  to  the  journal  on 
one  side  of  the  Avenue  that  the  country  was  going  to 
the  dogs  unless  the  spirit  of  the  Fathers  once  more 
reanimated  the  public;  it  was  equally  clear  to  the 
journal  on  the  other  side  of  the  Avenue  that  only  a 
rigid  adherence  to  the  letter  of  the  Fathers  would  save 
the  nation  from  decline.  It  was  obvious  to  the  first- 
named  journal  that  the  '  letter'  meant  Government  pat 
ronage  to  the  other  journal ;  it  was  potent  to  that  jour 
nal  that  the  '  shekels '  of  Senator  X  really  animated 
the  spirit  of  the  Fathers.  Yet  all  agreed  it  was  a  great 
and  good  and  perfect  government, —  subject  only  to 
the  predatory  incursions  of  a  Hydra-headed  monster 
known  as  a  'Ring.'  The  Ring's  origin  was  wrapped 
in  secrecy,  its  fecundity  was  alarming;  but  although 
its  rapacity  was  preternatural,  its  digestion  was  perfect 
and  easy.  It  circumvolved  all  affairs  in  an  atmosphere 
of  mystery;  it  clouded  all  things  with  the  dust  and 
ashes  of  distrust.  All  disappointment  of  place,  of  ava 
rice,  of  incompetency  or  ambition,  was  clearly  attribu 
table  to  it.  It  even  permeated  private  and  social 
life;  there  were  Rings  in  our  kitchen  and  household 
service ;  in  our  public  schools,  that  kept  the  active 
intelligences  of  our  children  passive ;  there  were  Rings 
of  engaging,  handsome,  dissolute  young  fellows,  who 
kept  us  moral  but  unengaging  seniors  from  the  favors 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  89 

of  the  fair;  there  were  subtle,  conspiring  Rings 
among  our  creditors,  which  sent  us  into  bankruptcy 
and  restricted  our  credit.  In  fact  it  would  not  be  haz 
ardous  to  say  that  all  that  was  calamitous  in  public  and 
private  experience  was  clearly  traceable  to  that  combi 
nation  of  power  in  a  minority  over  weakness  in  a 
majority  —  known  as  a  Ring. 

Haply  there  was  a  body  of  demigods,  as  yet  unin- 
voked,  who  should  speedily  settle  all  that.  When 
Smith  of  Minnesota,  Robinson  of  Vermont,  and  Jones 
of  Georgia,  returned  to  Congress  from  those  rural 
seclusions  so  potent  with  information  and  so  freed 
from  local  prejudices,  it  was  understood,  vaguely,  that 
great  things  would  be  done.  This  was  always  under 
stood.  There  never  was  a  time  in  the  liistory  of  Ameri 
can  politics  when,  to  use  the  expression  of  the  journals 
before  alluded  to,  "the  present  session  of  Congress" 
did  not  "  bid  fair  to  be  the  most  momentous  in  our  his 
tory,"  and  did  not,  as  far  as  the  facts  go,  leave  a  vast 
amount  of  unfinished  important  business  lying  hope 
lessly  upon  its  desks,  having  '  bolted '  the  rest  as  rashly 
and  with  as  little  regard  to  digestion  or  assimilation 
as  the  American  traveller  has  for  his  railway  refresh 
ment. 

In  this  capital,  on  this  languid  midsummer  day,  in 
an  upper  room  of  one  of  its  second-rate  hotels,  the 
Honorable  Pratt  C.  Gashwiler  sat  at  his  writing 


90  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

table.  There  are  certain  large,  fleshy  men  with  whom 
the  omission  of  even  a  neck-tie  or  collar  has  all  the 
effbct  of  an  indecent  exposure.  The  Hon.  Mr.  Grash- 
wiler,  in  his  trousers  and  shirt,  was  a  sight  to  be  avoided 
by  the  modest  eye.  There  were  such  palpable  sug 
gestions  of  vast  extents  of  unctuous  flesh  in  the  slight 
glimpse  offered  by  his  open  throat  that  his  dishabille 
should  have  been  as  private  as  his  business.  Never 
theless,  when  there  was  a  knock  at  his  door  he  unhesi 
tatingly  said,  "Come  in!"  —  pushing  away  a  goblet 
crowned  with  a  certain  aromatic  herb  with  his  right 
hand,  while  he  drew  towards  him  with  his  left  a  few 
proof  slips  of  his  forthcoming  speech.  The  Grashwiler 
brow  became,  as  it  were,  intelligently  abstracted. 

The  intruder  regarded  Gashwiler  with  a  glance  of 
familiar  recognition  from  his  right  eye,  while  his  left 
took  in  a  rapid  survey  of  the  papers  on  the  table,  and 
gleamed  sardonically. 

"You  are  at  work,  I  see,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Congressman,  with  an  air  of 
perfunctory  weariness, — "  one  of  my  speeches.  Those 
d — d  printers  make  such  a  mess  of  it;  I  suppose 
I  don't  write  a  very  fine  hand." 

If  the  gifted  Grashwiler  had  added  that  he  did  not 
write  a  very  intelligent  hand,  or  a  very  grammatical 
hand,  and  that  his  spelling  was  faulty,  he  would  have 
been  truthful,  although  the  copy  and  proof  before  him 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  91 

might  not  have  borne  him  ont.  The  near  fact  was 
that  the  speech  was  composed  and  written  by  one 
Expectant  Dobbs,  a  poor  retainer  of  Gashwiler,  and 
the  honorable  member's  labor  as  a  proof-reader  was 
confined  to  the  introduction  of  such  words  as  *  anarchy,' 
'oligarchy,'  'satrap,'  'palladium,'  and  'Argus-eyed'  in 
the  proof,  with  little  relevancy  as  to  position  or  place, 
and  no  perceptible  effect  as  to  argument. 

The  stranger  saw  all  this  with  his  wicked  left  eye, 
but  continued  to  beam  mildly  with  his  right.  Removing 
the  coat  and  waistcoat  of  Gashwiler  from  a  chair,  he 
drew  it  towards  the  table,  pushing  aside  a  portly, 
loud-ticking  watch, —  the  very  image  of  Gashwiler, — 
that  lay  beside  him,  and  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
proofs,  said: 

"Well?" 

"Have  you  anything  new?"  asked  the  parliament 
ary  Gashwiler. 

"  Much !   a  woman !  "  replied  the  stranger. 

The  astute  Gashwiler,  waiting  further  information, 
concluded  to  receive  this  fact  gaily  and  gallantly. 
"A  woman  ?  —  my  dear  Mr.  Wiles, —  of  course !  The 
dear  creatures,"  he  continued,  with  a  fat,  offensive 
chuckle,  "somehow  are  always  making  their  charming 
presence  felt.  Ha  !  ha  !  A  man,  sir,  in  public  life 
becomes  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  knows 
when  he  must  be  agreeable, —  agreeable,  sir,  but  firm  I 


92  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

I've  had  my  experience,  sir, —  my  own  experience," 
—  and  the  Congressman  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  not 
unlike  a  robust  St.  Anthony  who  had  withstood  one 
temptation  to  thrive  on  another. 

"  Yes,"  said  Wiles  impatiently,  "  but  d — n  it,  she  's 
on  the  other  side" 

"  The  other  side  !  "  repeated  Gashwiler  vacantly. 

"  Yes,  she  's  a  niece  of  Garcia's.    A  little  she  devil." 

"  But  Garcia  's  on  our  side,"  rejoined  Gashwiler. 

"  Yes,  but  she  is  bought  by  the  ring." 

"A  woman!"  sneered  Mr.  Gashwiler;  "what  can 
she  do  with  men  who  won't  be  made  fools  of  ?  Is  she 
so  handsome  ?  " 

"I  never  saw  any  great  beauty  in  her,"  said  Wiles 
shortly,  "  although  they  say  that  she 's  rather  caught 
that  d — d  Thatcher,  in  spite  of  his  coldness.  At  any 
rate,  she  is  his  protege.  But  she  is  n't  the  sort  you  're 
thinking  of,  Gashwiler.  They  say  she  knows,  or  pre 
tends  to  know,  something  about  the  grant.  She  may 
have  got  hold  of  some  of  her  uncle's  papers.  Those 
Greasers  were  always  d  —  d  fools ;  and,  if  he  did  any 
thing  foolish,  like  as  not  he  bungled  or  did  n't  cover 
up  his  tracks.  And  with  his  knowledge  and  facilities 
too  !  Why,  if  I  'd  -  — "  but  here  Mr.  Wiles  stopped 
to  sigh  over  the  inequalities  of  fortune  that  wasted 
opportunities  on  the  less  skillful  scamp. 

Mr.  Gashwiler  became  dignified.  "  She  can  do 
nothing  with  us,"  he  said  potentially. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  93 

Wiles  turned  his  wicked  eye  on  him.  "  Manuel 
and  Miguel,  who  sold  out  to  our  man,  are  afraid  of 

O  " 

her.  They  were  our  witnesses.  I  verily  believe  they  'd 
take  back  everything  if  she  got  after  them.  And  as 
for  Pedro,  he  thinks  she  holds  the  power  of  life  and 
death  over  him." 

"Pedro!  life  and  death,— what 's  all  this?"  said 
the  astonished  Gashwiler. 

Wiles  saw  his  blunder,  but  saw  also  that  he  had 
gone  too  far  to  stop.  "  Pedro,"  he  said,  "  was  strongly 
suspected  of  having  murdered  Concho,  one  of  the 
original  locators." 

Mr.  Gashwiler  turned  white  as  a  sheet,  and  then 
flushed  again  into  an  apoplectic  glow.  "  Do  you  dare 
to  say,"  he  began  as  soon  as  he  could  find  his  tongue 
and  his  legs,  for  in  the  exercise  of  his  congressional 
functions  these  extreme  members  supported  each  other, 
— "  do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  stammered  in  rising  rage, 
"  that  you  have  dared  to  deceive  an  American  law 
giver  into  legislating  upon  a  measure  connected  with 
a  capital  offense  ?  Do  I  understand  you  to  say,  sir, 
that  murder  stands  upon  the  record  —  stands  upon  the 
record,  sir, —  of  this  cause  to  which,  as  a  representa 
tive  of  Remus,  I  have  lent  my  official  aid?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  you  have  deceived  my  constituency, 
whose  sacred  trust  I  hold,  in  inveigling  me  to  hiding 
a  crime  from  the  Argus  eyes  of  justice  ?  "  And  Mr. 


94  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Gasliwilcr  looked  towards  the  bell-pull  as  if  about  to 
summon  a  servant  to  witness  this  outrage  against  the 
established  judiciary. 

"  The  murder,  if  it  was  a  murder,  took  place  before 
Garcia  entered  upon  this  claim,  or  had  a  footing  in  this 
court,"  returned  Wiles  blandly,  "and  is  no  part  of 
the  record." 

"You  are  sure  it  is  not  spread  upon  the  record?" 

"  I  am.     You  can  judge  for  yourself." 

Mr.  Gashwiler  walked  to  the  window,  returned  to 
the  table,  finished  his  liquor  in  a  single  gulp,  and  then, 
with  a  slight  resumption  of  dignity,  said : 

"  That  alters  the  case." 

Wiles  glanced  with  his  left  eye  at  the  Congressman. 
The  right  placedly  looked  out  of  the  window.  Pres 
ently  he  said  quietly,  "I've  brought  you  the  certifi 
cates  of  stock ;  do  you  wish  them  made  out  in  your 
own  name  ?  " 

Mr.  Gashwiler  tried  hard  to  look  as  if  he  were  try 
ing  to  recall  the  meaning  of  Wiles's  words.  "  Oh !  — 
ah!  —  umph!  —  let  me  see, —  oh,  yes,  the  certificates, 
—  certainly !  Of  course  you  will  make  them  out  in 
the  name  of  my  secretary,  Mr.  Expectant  Dobbs. 
They  will  perhaps  repay  him  for  the  extra  clerical 
labor  required  in  the  prosecution  of  your  claim.  He 
is  a  worthy  young  man.  Although  not  a  public  officer, 
yet  he  is  so  near  to  me  that  perhaps  I  am  wrong  in 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  95 

permitting  him  to  accept  a  fee  for  private  interests. 
An  American  representative  cannot  be  too  cautious, 
Mr.  Wiles.  Perhaps  you  had  better  have  also  a  blank 
transfer.  The  stock  is,  I  understand,  yet  in  the  future. 
Mr.  Dobbs,  though  talented  and  praiseworthy,  is  poor ; 
he  may  wish  to  realize.  If  some  • —  ahem !  some  friend 
—  better  circumstanced  should  choose  to  advance  the 
cash  to  him  and  run  the  risk, —  why  it  would  only  be 
an  act  of  kindness." 

"You  are  proverbially  generous,  Mr.  Gashwiler," 
said  Wiles,  opening  and  shutting  his  left  eye  like  a 
dark  lantern  on  the  benevolent  representative. 

"  Youth,  when  faithful  and  pains-taking,  should  be 
encouraged,"  replied  Mr.  Gashwiler.  "I  lately  had 
occasion  to  point  this  out  in  a  few  remarks  I  had  to 
make  before  the  Sabbath  school  reunion  at  Remus. 
Thank  you,  I  will  see  that  they  are  —  ahem !  —  con 
veyed  to  him.  I  shall  give  them  to  him  with  my  own 
hand,"  he  concluded,  falling  back  in  his  chair,  as  if 
the  better  to  contemplate  the  perspective  of  his  own 
generosity  and  condescension.  Mr.  Wiles  took  his  hat 
and  turned  to  go.  Before  he  reached  the  door  Mr. 
Gashwiler  returned  to  the  social  level  with  a  chuckle : 

"  You  say  this  woman,  this  Garcia's  niece,  is  hand 
some  and  smart  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  can  set  another  woman  on  the  track  that'll 
euchre  her  every  time  ! " 


96  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Mr.  Wiles  was  too  clever  to  appear  to  notice  the 
sudden  lapse  in  the  Congressman's  dignity,  and  only 
said,  with  his  right  eye : 

"Canyon?" 

"  By  G-d,  I  will,  or  I  do  n't  know  how  to  represent 
Remus." 

Mr.  Wiles  thanked  him  with  his  right  eye,  and 
looked  a  dagger  with  his  left.  "Good,"  he  said,  and 
added  persuasively:  "  Does  she  live  here?  " 

The  Congressman  nodded  assent.  "An  awfully 
handsome  woman, —  a  particular  friend  of  mine!" 
Mr.  Gashwilcr  here  looked  as  if  he  would  not  mind  to 
have  been  rallied  a  little  over  his  intimacy  with  the 
fair  one ;  but  the  astute  Mr.  Wiles  was  at  the  same 
moment  making  up  his  mind,  after  interpreting  the 
Congressman's  look  and  manner,  that  he  must  know 
this  fair  incognito  if  he  wished  to  sway  Gashwiler. 
He  determined  to  bide  his  time,  and  withdrew. 

The  door  was  scarcely  closed  upon  him  when  another 
knock  diverted  Mr.  Gashwiler's  attention  from  his 
proofs.  The  door  opened  to  a  young  man  with  sandy 
hair  and  anxious  face.  He  entered  the  room  depre- 
catingly,  as  if  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  powerful 
being,  to  be  supplicated  and  feared.  Mr.  Gashwiler 
did  not  attempt  to  disabuse  his  mind.  "  Busy,  you 
see,"  he  said  shortly,  "  correcting  your  work ! " 

"I  hope  it  is  acceptable?"  said  the  young  man 
timidly. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  97 

"  Well — yes — it  will  do,"  said  G-ashwiler ;  "  indeed 
I  may  say  it  is  satisfactory  on  the  whole,"  he  added 
with  the  appearance  of  a  large  generosity;  "  quite 
satisfactory." 

"You  have  no  news,  I  suppose,"  continued  the 
young  man,  with  a  slight  flush,  "born  of  pride  or 
expectation. 

"  No,  nothing  as  yet."  Mr.  Gashwiler  paused  as  if 
a  thought  had  struck  him. 

"  I  have  thought,"  he  said,  finally,  "  that  some 
position  — •  such  as  a  secretaryship  with  me  —  would 
help  you  to  a  better  appointment.  Now,  supposing 
that  I  make  you*  my  private  secretary,  giving  you  some 
important  and  confidential  business.  Eh?" 

Dobbs  looked  at  his  patron  with  a  certain  wistful, 
dog-like  expectancy,  moved  himself  excitedly  on  his 
chair  seat  in  a  peculiar  canine-like  anticipation  of 
gratitude,  strongly  suggesting  that  he  would  have 
wagged  his  tail  if  he  had  one.  At  which  Mr.  Gash 
wiler  became  more  impressive. 

"Indeed,  I  may  say  I  anticipated  it  by  certain 
papers  I  have  put  in  your  charge  and  in  your  name, 
only  taking  from  you  a  transfer  that  might  enable  me 
to  satisfy  my  conscience  hereafter  in  recommending 
you  as  my  —  ahem !  —  private  secretary.  Perhaps,  as 
a  mere  form,  you  might  now,  while  you  are  here,  put 
your  name  to  these  transfers,  and,  so  to  speak,  begin 
your  duties  at  once."  7 


98  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

The  glow  of  pride  and  hope  that  mantled  the  cheek 
of  poor  Dobbs  might  have  melted  a  harder  heart  than 
Gashwiler's.  But  the  senatorial  toga  had  invested 
Mr.  Crash wiler  with  a  more  than  Roman  stoicism 
towards  the  feelings  of  others,  and  he  only  fell  back 
in  his  chair  in  the  pose  of  conscious  rectitude  as  Dobbs 
hurriedly  signed  the  paper. 

"  I  shall  place  them  in  my  portman-tell,"  said  Gash- 
wiler,  suiting  the  word  to  the  action,  "for  safe  keep 
ing.  I  need  not  inform  you,  who  are  now,  as  it  were, 
on  the  threshold  of  official  life,  that  perfect  and 
inviolable  secrecy  in  all  affairs  of  State"  —  Mr.  G. 
here  motioned  toward  his  porte-manteau  as  if  it  con 
tained  a  treaty  at  least  —  "is  most  essential  and 
necessary." 

Dobbs  assented.  "  Then  my  duties  will  keep  me 
with  you  here  ?  "  he  asked  doubtfully. 

"No,  no,"  said  Gashwiler  hastily;  then,  correcting 
himself,  he  added :  "  that  is  —  for  the  present  —  no !  " 

Poor  Dobbs's  face  fell.  The  near  fact  was  that  he 
had  lately  had  notice  to  quit  his  present  lodgings  in 
consequence  of  arrears  in  his  rent,  and  he  had  a  hope 
ful  reliance  that  his  confidential  occupation  would 
carry  bread  and  lodging  with  it.  But  he  only  asked 
if  there  were  any  new  papers  to  make  out. 

"Ahem!  not  at  present;  the  fact  is  I  am  obliged  to 
give  so  much  of  my  time  to  callers  —  I  have  today 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  99 

been  obliged  to  see  half  a  dozen  —  that  I  must  lock 
myself  up  and  say  '  Not  at  home '  for  the  rest  of  the 
day."  Feeling  that  this  was  an  intimation  that  the 
interview  was  over,  the  new  private  secretary,  a  little 
dashed  as  to  his  near  hopes,  "but  still  sanguine  of  the 
future,  humbly  took  his  leave. 

But  here  a  certain  Providence,  perhaps  mindful  of 
poor  Dobbs,  threw  into  his  simple  hands  —  to  be  used 
or  not,  if  he  were  worthy  or  capable  of  using  it  —  a 
certain  power  and  advantage.  He  had  descended  the 
staircase,  and  was  passing  through  the  lower  corridor, 
when  he  was  made  the  unwilling  witness  of  a  remark 
able  assault. 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Wiles,  who  had  quitted  Gash- 
wiler's  presence  as  Dobbs  was  announced,  had  other 
business  in  the  hotel,  and  in  pursuance  of  it  had 
knocked  at  room  No.  90.  In  response  to  the  gruff 
voice  that  bade  him  enter,  Mr.  Wiles  opened  the  door, 
and  espied  the  figure  of  a  tall,  muscular,  fiery-bearded 
man  extended  on  the  bed,  with  the  bed  clothes  care 
fully  tucked  under  his  chin,  and  his  arms  lying  flat  by 
his  side. 

Mr.  Wiles  beamed  with  his  right  cheek,  and  ad 
vanced  to  the  bed  as  if  to  take  the  hand  of  the  stranger, 
who,  however,  neither  by  word  or  sign,  responded  to 
his  salutation. 

"  Perhaps  I  'm  intruding  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wiles  blandly. 


100  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  Perhaps  you  are,"  said  Red  Beard  dryly. 

Mr.  Wiles  forced  a  smile  on  his  right  cheek,  which 
he  turned  to  the  smiter,  but  permitted  the  left  to 
indulge  in  unlimited  malevolence.  "  I  wanted  merely 
to  know  if  you  have  looked  into  that  matter  ?  "  he 
said  meekly. 

"  I  Ve  looked  into  it  and  round  it  and  across  it  and 
over  it  and  through  it,"  responded  the  man  gravely, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Wiles. 

"  And  you  have  perused  all  the  papers?  "  continued 
Mr.  Wiles. 

"  I  Ve  read  every  paper,  every  speech,  every  affi 
davit,  every  decision,  every  argument,"  said  the 
stranger  as  if  repeating  a  formula. 

Mr.  Wiles  attempted  to  conceal  his  embarrassment 
by  an  easy,  right-handed  smile,  that  went  off  sardoni 
cally  on  the  left,  and  continued :  "  Then  I  hope,  my 
dear  sir,  that,  having  thoroughly  mastered  the  case, 
you  are  inclined  to  be  favorable  to  us  ?  " 

The  gentleman  in  the  bed  did  not  reply,  but  appar 
ently  nestled  more  closely  beneath  the  coverlids. 

"I  have  brought  the  shares  I  spoke  of,"  continued 
Mr.  Wiles,  insinuatingly. 

"Hevyou  a  friend  within  call?"  interrupted  the 
recumbent  man  gently. 

"  I  do  n't  quite  understand ! "  smiled  Mr.  Wiles. 
"  Of  course  any  name  you  might  suggest " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  101 

"  Hev  you  a  friend,  any  chap  that  you  might  waltz 
in  here  at  a  moment's  call?"  continued  the  man  in 
bed.  "  No  ?  Do  you  know  any  of  them  waiters  in 
the  house  ?  Thar  's  a  bell  over  yan !  "  and  he  motioned 
with  his  eyes  towards  the  wall,  but  did  not  otherwise 
move  his  body. 

"  No,"  said  Wiles,  becoming  slightly  suspicious  and 
wrathful. 

"  Mebbe  a  stranger  might  do  ?  I  reckon  thar  's  one 
passin'  in  the  hall.  Call  him  in, —  he  '11  do!  " 

Wiles  opened  the  door  a  little  impatiently,  yet 
inquisitively,  as  Dobbs  passed.  The  man  in  bed  called 
out,  "  Oh,  stranger ! "  and,  as  Dobbs  stopped,  said, 
"Come  yar." 

Dobbs  entered  a  little  timidly,  as  was  his  habit  with 
strangers. 

"  I  do  n't  know  who  you  be  —  nor  care,  I  reckon," 
said  the  stranger.  "This  yer  man" — pointing  to 
Wiles — "is  Wiles.  I'm  Josh  Sibblee  of  Fresno, 
Member  of  Congress  from  the  4th  Congressional  Dis 
trict  of  Californy.  I  'm  jist  lying  here,  with  a  der 
ringer  into  each  hand, — jist  lying  here  kivered  up 
and  holdin'  in  on'y  to  keep  from  blowin'  the  top  o' 
this  d — d  skunk's  head  off.  I  kinder  feel  I  can't 
hold  in  any  longer.  What  I  want  to  say  to  ye,  stran 
ger,  is  that  this  yer  skunk  —  which  his  name  is  Wiles 
—  hez  bin  tryin'  his  d — dest  to  get  a  bribe  onto  Josh, 


102  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

and  Josh,  onto  respect  for  his  constituents,  is  jist 
waitin'  for  some  stranger  to  waltz  in  and  stop  the 
d— dest  fight  — 

"  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Sibblee,  there  must  be  some 
mistake,"  said  Wiles  earnestly. 

"Mistake?     Strip  me !" 

"  No  !  No !  "  said  Wiles,  hurriedly,  as  the  simple- 
minded  Dobbs  was  about  to  draw  down  the  coverlid. 

"Take  him  away,"  said  the  Hon.  Mr.  Sibblee, 
"  before  I  disgrace  my  constituency.  They  said  I  'd 
"be  in  jail  afore  I  get  through  the  session.  Ef  you  've 
got  any  humanity,  stranger,  snake  him  out,  and  pow'ful 
quick,  too." 

Dobbs,  quite  white  and  aghast,  looked  at  Wiles  and 
hesitated.  There  was  a  slight  movement  in  the  bed. 
Both  men  started  for  the  door;  and  the  next  minute 
it  closed  very  decidedly  on  the  member  from  Fresno. 


CHAPTER  XL 

HOW  IT  WAS  LOBBIED  FOR. 

The  Hon.  Pratt  C.  Gashwiler,  M.C.,  was  of  course 
unaware  of  the  incident  described  in  the  last  chapter. 
His  secret,  even  if  it  had  been  discovered  by  Dobbs, 
was  safe  in  that  gentleman's  innocent  and  honorable 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  103 

hands,  and  certainly  was  not  of  a  quality  that  Mr. 
Wiles,  at  present,  would  have  cared  to  expose.  For, 
in  spite  of  Mr.  Wiles's  discomfiture,  he  still  had  enough 
experience  of  character  to  know  that  the  irate  member 
from  Fresno  would  be  satisfied  with  his  own  peculiar 
manner  of  vindicating  his  own  personal  integrity,  and 
would  not  make  a  public  scandal  of  it.  Again,  Wiles 
was  convinced  that  Dobbs  was  equally  implicated  with 
Gashwiler,  and  would  be  silent  for  his  own  sake.  So 
that  poor  Dobbs,  as  is  too  often  the  fate  of  simple  but 
weak  natures,  had  full  credit  for  duplicity  by  every 
rascal  in  the  land. 

From  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  nothing  occurred 
to  disturb  the  security  of  Gashwiler.  When  the  door 
closed  upon  Mr.  Wiles,  he  indited  a  note  which,  with 
a  costly  but  exceedingly  distasteful  bouquet, —  re 
arranged  by  his  own  fat  fingers,  and  discord  and 
incongruity  visible  in  every  combination  of  color, —  he 
sent  off  by  a  special  messenger.  Then  he  proceeded 
to  make  his  toilet, —  an  operation  rarely  graceful  or 
picturesque  in  our  sex,  and  an  insult  to  the  spectator 
when  obesity  is  superadded.  When  he  had  put  on  a 
clean  shirt,  of  which  there  was  grossly  too  much,  and 
added  a  white  waistcoat,  that  seemed  to  accent  his 
rotundity,  he  completed  his  attire  with  a  black  frock 
coat  of  the  latest  style,  and  surveyed  himself  compla 
cently  before  a  mirror.  It  is  to  be  recorded  that,  however 


104  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

satisfactory  the  result  might  have  been  to  Mr.  Gash- 
wiler,  it  was  not  so  to  the  disinterested  spectator.  There 
are  some  men  on  whom  '  that  deformed  thief,  Fashion,' 
avenges  himself  by  making  their  clothes  appear  peren 
nially  new.  The  gloss  of  the  tailor's  iron  never  dis 
appears;  the  creases  of  the  shelf  perpetually  rise  in 
judgment  against  the  wearer.  Novelty  was  the  gen 
eral  suggestion  of  Mr.  Gashwiler's  full-dress, —  it  was 
never  his  habitude;  —  and  *  Our  own  Make,'  '  Nobby,' 
and  the  'Latest  Style,  only  $15,'  was  as  patent  on  the 
legislator's  broad  back  as  if  it  still  retained  the  shop 
man's  ticket. 

Thus  arrayed,  within  an  hour  he  complacently  fol 
lowed  the  note  and  his  floral  offering.  The  house  he 
sought  had  been  once  the  residence  of  a  foreign  Am 
bassador,  who  had  loyally  represented  his  government 
in  a  single  unimportant  treaty,  now  forgotten,  and  in 
various  receptions  and  dinners,  still  actively  remem 
bered  by  occasional  visits  to  its  salon  ;  now  the  aver 
age  dreary  American  parlor.  "  Dear  me,"  the  fascinat 
ing  Mr.  X  would  say,  "but  do  you  know,  love,  in 
this  very  room  I  remember  meeting  the  distinguished 
Marquis  of  Monte  Pio ;"  or  perhaps  the  fashionable 
Jones  of  the  State  Department  instantly  crushed  the 
decayed  friend  he  was  perfunctorily  visiting  by  say 
ing,  "  'Pon  my  soul,  you  here;  —  why,  the  last  time  I 
was  in  this  room  I  gossiped  for  an  hour  with  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  105 

Countess  de  Castenet  in  that  very  corner."  For,  with 
the  recall  of  the  aforesaid  Ambassador,  the  mansion 
had  become  a  boarding-house,  kept  by  the  wife  of  a 
departmental  clerk. 

Perhaps  there  was  nothing  in  the  history  of  the 
house  more  quaint  and  philosophic  than  the  story  of 
its  present  occupant.  Roger  Fauquier  had  been  a 
departmental  clerk  for  forty  years.  It  was  at  once 
his  practical  good  luck  and  his  misfortune  to  have 
been  early  appointed  to  a  position  which  required  a 
thorough  and  complete  knowledge  of  the  formulas  and 
routine  of  a  department  that  expended  millions  of  the 
public  funds.  Fauquier,  on  a  poor  salary,  diminish 
ing  instead  of  increasing  with  his  service,  had  eeen 
successive  administrations  bud  and  blossom  and  decay, 
but  had  kept  his  position  through  the  fact  that  his 
knowledge  was  a  necessity  to  the  successive  chiefs  and  • 
employes.  Once,  it  was  true  that  he  had  been  sum 
marily  removed  by  a  new  Secretary,  to  make  room  for 
a  camp  follower,  whose  exhaustive  and  intellectual  ser 
vices  in  a  political  campaign  had  made  him  eminently 
lit  for  anything;  but  the  alarming  discovery  that  the 
new  clerk's  knowledge  of  grammar  and  etymology 
was  even  worse  than  that  of  the  Secretary  himself,  and 
that,  through  ignorance  of  detail,  the  business  of  that 
department  was  retarded  to  a  damage  to  the  Govern 
ment  of  over  half  a  million  of  dollars,  led  to  the 


106  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

reinstatement  of  Mr.  Fauquier — at  a  lower  salary. 
For  it  was  felt  that  something  was  wrong  somewhere, 
and  as  it  had  always  been  the  custom  of  Congress  and 
the  administration  to  cut  down  salaries  as  the  first 
step  to  reform,  they  made  of  Mr.  Fauquier  a  moral 
example.  A  gentleman  born,  of  somewhat  expensive 
tastes,  having  lived  up  to  his  former  salary,  this  change 
brought  another  bread-winner  into  the  field,  Mrs.  Fau 
quier,  who  tried,  more  or  less  unsuccessfully,  to  turn 
her  old  Southern  habits  of  hospitality  to  remunerative 
account.  But  as  poor  Fauquier  could  never  be  pre 
vailed  upon  to  present  a  bill  to  a  gentleman,  sir,  and 
as  some  of  the  scions  of  the  best  Southern  families 
were  still  waiting  for,  or  had  been  recently  dismissed 
from,  a  position,  the  experiment  was  a  pecuniary  failure. 
Yet  the  house  was  of  excellent  repute  and  well  pat>- 
ronized;  indeed,  it  was  worth  something  to  see  old 
Fauquier  sitting  at  the  head  of  his  own  table,  in  some 
thing  of  his  ancestral  style,  relating  anecdotes  of 
great  men  now  dead  and  gone,  interrupted  only  by 
occasional  visits  from  importunate  tradesmen. 

Prominent  among  what  Mr.  Fauquier  called  his 
'little  family,'  was  a  black-eyed  lady  of  great  powers 
of  fascination,  and  considerable  local  reputation  as  a 
flirt.  Nevertheless,  these  social  aberrations  were  amply 
condoned  by  a  facile  and  complacent  husband,  who 
looked  with  a  lenient  and  even  admiring  eye  upon  the 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  107 

little  lady's  amusement,  and  to  a  certain  extent  lent  a 
tacit  indorsement  to  her  conduct.  Nobody  minded 
Hopkinson;  in  the  blaze  of  Mrs.  Hopkinson's  fasci 
nations  he  was  completely  lost  sight  of.  A  few  mar 
ried  women  with  unduly  sensitive  husbands,  and  sev 
eral  single  ladies  of  the  best  and  longest  standing, 
reflected  severely  on  her  conduct.  The  younger  men 
of  course  admired  her,  but  I  think  she  got  her  chief 
support  from  old  fogies  like  ourselves.  For  it  is  your 
quiet,  self-conceited,  complacent,  philosophic,  broad- 
waisted  pater-familias  who,  after  all,  is  the  one  to 
whom  the  gay  and  giddy  of  the  proverbially  impulsive, 
unselfish  sex  owe  their  place  in  the  social  firmament. 
We  are  never  inclined  to  be  captious ;  we  laugh  at  as 
a  folly  what  our  wives  and  daughters  condemn  as  a 
fault;  our  'withers  are  un wrung,'  yet  we  still  confess 
to  the  fascinations  of  a  pretty  face.  We  know,  bless 
us,  from  dear  experience,  the  exact  value  of  one 
woman's  opinion  of  another ;  we  want  our  brilliant  lit 
tle  friend  to  shine ;  it  is  only  the  moths  who  will  burn 
their  two-penny  immature  wings  in  the  flame  !  And 
why  should  they  not?  Nature  has  been  pleased  to 
supply  more  moths  than  candles !  Go  to !  —  give  the 
pretty  creature — be  she  maid,  wife,  or  widow — a  show ! 
And  so,  my  dear  sir,  while  mater-familias  bends  her 
black  brows  in  disgust,  we  smile  our  superior  little 
smile,  and  extend  to  Mistress  Anonyma  our  gracious 


108  The  Story  of  a  Mine, 

indorsement.  And  if  giddiness  is  grateful,  or  if  folly 
is  friendly, —  well,  of  course,  we  can't  help  that.  In 
deed  it  rather  proves  our  theory. 

I  had  intended  to  say  something  about  Ilopkinson  ; 
but  really  there  is  very  little  to  say.  He  was  invari 
ably  good  humored.  A  few  ladies  once  tried  to  show 
him  that  he  really  ought  to  feel  worse  than  he  did 
about  the  conduct  of  his  wif e ;  and  it  is  recorded  that 
Hopkinson,  in  an  excess  of  good  humor  and  kindli 
ness,  promised  to  do  so.  Indeed  the  good  fellow  was 
so  accessible  that  it  is  said  that  young  DeLancy  of 
the  Tape  Department  confided  to  Hopkinson  his  jeal 
ousy  of  a  rival ;  and  revealed  the  awful  secret  that  he 
(DeLancy)  had  reason  to  expect  more  loyalty  from 
his  (Hopkinson's)  wife.  The  good  fellow  is  reported 
to  have  been  very  sympathetic,  and  to  have  promised 
DeLancy  to  lend  whatever  influence  he  had  with  Mrs. 
Hopkinson  in  his  favor.  "  You  see,"  he  said  explana 
torily  to  DeLancy,  "  she  has  a  good  deal  to  attend  to 
lately,  and  I  suppose  has  got  rather  careless, —  that 's 
women's  ways.  But  if  /  can't  bring  her  round  I  '11 
speak  to  Gashwiler, —  I  '11  get  him  to  use  his  influence 
with  Mrs.  Hop.  So  cheer  up,  my  boy,  he  'II  make  it 
all  right." 

The  appearance  of  a  bouquet  on  the  table  of  Mrs. 
Hopkinson  was  no  rare  event ;  nevertheless,  Mr.  Gash- 
wiler's  was  not  there.  Its  hideous  contrasts  had 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  109 

offended  her  woman's  eye,  —  it  is  observable  that  good 
taste  survives  the  wreck  of  all  the  other  feminine  vir 
tues,  —  and  she  had  distributed  it  to  make  bouton- 
nieres  for  other  gentlemen.  Yet,  when  he  appeared, 
she  said  to  him  hastily,  putting  her  little  hand  over 
the  cardiac  region : 

"  I  'm  so  glad  you  came.  But  you  gave  me  such 
a  fright  an  hour  ago." 

Mr.  Gashwiler  was  both  pleased  and  astounded. 
"What  have  I  done,  my  dear  Mrs.  HopkinsonV"  he 
began. 

"  Oh,  do  n't  talk,"  she  said  sadly.  "  What  have 
you  done,  indeed !  Why,  you  sent  me  that  beautiful 
bouquet.  I  could  not  mistake  your  taste  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  flowers ;  —  but  my  husband  was 
here.  You  know  his  jealousy.  I  was  obliged  to 
conceal  it  from  him.  Never  —  promise  me  now  — — 
never  do  it  again." 

Mr.  Gashwiler  gallantly  protested. 

"  No !  I  am  serious !  I  was  so  agitated :  he  must 
have  seen  me  blush." 

Nothing  but  the  gross  flattery  of  this  speech  could 
have  clouded  its  manifest  absurdity  to  the  Gashwiler 
consciousness.  But  Mr.  Gashwiler  had  already  suc 
cumbed  to  the  girlish  half-timidity  with  which  it  was 
uttered.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  help  saying : 

"  But  why  should  he  be  so  jealous  now?    Only  day 


110  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

before  yesterday  I  saw  Simpson  of  Duluth  hand  you 
a  nosegay  right  before  him !  " 

"Ah,"  returned  the  lady,  "he  was  outwardly  calm 
then,  but  you  know  nothing  of  the  scene  that  occurred 
between  us  after  you  left." 

"But,"  gasped  the  practical  Grashwiler,  "Simpson 
had  given  your  husband  that  contract, —  a  cool  fifty 
thousand  in  his  pocket !  " 

Mrs.  Hopkinson  looked  as  dignifiedly  at  Grashwiler 
as  was  consistent  with  five  feet  three  (the  extra  three 
inches  being  a  pyramidal  structure  of  straw-colored 
hair),  a  frond  of  faint  curls,  a  pair  of  laughing  blue 
eyes,  and  a  small  belted  waist.  Then  she  said,  with  a 
casting  down  of  her  lids : 

"You  forget  that  my  husband  loves  me."  And  for 
once  the  minx  appeared  to  look  penitent.  It  was 
becoming ;  but  as  it  had  been  originally  practiced  in  a 
simple  white  dress,  relieved  only  with  pale-blue  rib 
bons,  it  was  not  entirely  in  keeping  with  beflounced 
lavender  and  rose-colored  trimmings.  Yet  the  wo 
man  who  hesitates  between  her  moral  expression  and 
the  harmony  of  her  dress  is  lost.  And  Mrs.  Hopkin 
son  was  victrix  by  her  very  audacity. 

Mr.  Gashwiler  was  nattered.  The  most  dissolute 
man  likes  the  appearance  of  virtue.  "  But  graces 
and  accomplishments  like  yours,  dear  Mrs.  Hopkin- 
Son,"  he  said  oleaginously,  "belong  to  the  whole 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  Ill 

country."  Which,  with  something  between  a  cour 
tesy  and  a  strut,  he  endeavored  to  represent.  "  And 
I  shall  want  to  avail  myself  of  all,"  he  added,  "  in 
the  matter  of  the  Castro  claim.  A  little  supper  at 
Welcker's,  a  glass  or  two  of  champagne,  and  a  single 
flash  of  those  bright  eyes,  and  the  thing'is  done." 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkinson,  "  I  've  promised  Josiah 
that  I  would  give  up  all  those  frivolities,  and  although 
my  conscience  is  clear,  you  know  how  people  talk ! 
Josiah  hears  it.  Why,  only  last  night,  at  a  reception 
at  the  Patagonian  Minister's,  every  woman  in  the 
room  gossiped  about  me  because  I  led  the  German 
with  him.  As  if  a  married  woman,  whose  husband 
was  interested  in  the  Government,  could  not  be  civil 
to  the  representative  of  a  friendly  power?" 

Mr.  Gashwiler  did  not  see  how  Mr.  Hopkinson's 
late  contract  for  supplying  salt  pork  and  canned  pro 
visions  to  the  army  of  the  United  States  should  make 
his  wife  susceptible  to  the  advances  of  foreign  princes ; 
but  he  prudently  kept  that  to  himself.  Still,  not  being 
himself  a  diplomat,  he  could  not  help  saying : 

"But  I  understood  that  Mr.  Hopkinson  did  not 
object  to  your  interesting  yourself  in  this  claim,  and 
you  know  some  of  the  stock " 

The  lady  started,  and  said : 

"  Stock !  Dear  Mr.  Gashwiler,  for  Heaven's  sake 
do  n't  mention  that  hideous  name  to  me.  Stock,  I  am 


112  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

sick  of  it !  Have  you  gentlemen  no  other  topic  for  a 
lady?" 

She  punctuated  her  sentence  with  a  mischievous 
look  at  her  interlocutor.  For  a  second  time,  I  regret 
to  say,  that  Mr.  Gashwiler  succumbed.  The  Roman 
constituency  at  Remus,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  were  happily 
ignorant  of  this  last  defection  of  their  great  legisla 
tor.  Mr.  Gashwiler  instantly  forgot  his  theme, — 
began  to  ply  the  lady  with  a  certain  bovine-like  gal 
lantry,  which  it  is  to  be  said  to  her  credit  she  parried 
with  a  playful,  terrier-like  dexterity,  when  the  servant 
suddenly  announced,  "  Mr.  Wiles." 

Gashwiler  started.  Not  so  Mrs.  Hopkinson,  who, 
however,  prudently  and  quietly  removed  her  own 
chair  several  inches  from  Gashwiler's. 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Wiles?"  she  asked  pleasantly. 

"No!  That  is,  I — ah  —  yes,  I  may  say  I  have 
had  some  business  relations  with  him,"  responded 
Gashwiler  rising. 

"  Won't  you  stay  ?  "  she  added  pleadingly.    "  Do ! " 

Mr.  Gashwiler's  prudence  always  got  the  better  of 
his  gallantry.  "  Not  now,"  he  responded  in  some 
nervousness.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  now,  in  view 
of  what  you  have  just  said  about  gossip.  You  need 
not  mention  my  name  to  this-er  —  this  —  Mr.  Wiles." 
And  with  one  eye  on  the  door,  and  an  awkward  clash 
of  his  lips  at  the  lady's  fingers,  he  withdrew. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  113 

There  was  no  introductory  formula  to  Mr.  Wiles's 
interview.  He  dashed  at  once  in  medias  res.  "  Gash- 
wiler  knows  a  woman  that,  he  says,  can  help  us  against 
that  Spanish  girl  who  is  coming  here  with  proofs, 
prettiness,  fascination,  and  what  not !  You  must  find 
her  out." 

"  Why?"  asked  the  lady  laughingly. 

"  Because  I  do  n't  trust  that  Gash  wiler.  A  woman 
with  a  pretty  face  and  an  ounce  of  brains  could  sell 
him  out;  aye,  and  us  with  him." 

"  Oh,  say  two  ounces  of  brains.  -Mr.  Wiles,  Mr. 
Gasli wiler  is  no  fool." 

"  Possibly,  except  when  your  sex  is  concerned,  and 
it  is  very  likely  that  the  woman  is  his  superior." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkinson  with  a 
mischievous  look. 

"Ah,  you  know  her,  then?" 

"Not  so  well  as  I  know  him,"  said  Mrs.  H.  quite 
seriously.  "  I  wish  I  did." 

"Well,  you  '11  find  out  if  she 's  to  be  trusted !  You  are 
laughing, —  it  is  a  serious  matter!  This  woman " 

Mrs.  Hopkinson  dropped  him  a  charming  courtesy 
and  said, 

"C'ertmoit" 


114  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A   RACE   FOR   IT. 

Royal  Thatcher  worked  hard.  That  the  boyish  little 
painter  who  shared  his  hospitality  at  the  '  Blue  Mass ' 
mine  should  afterward  have  little  part  in  his  active  life 
seemed  not  inconsistent  with  his  habits.  At  present 
the  mine  was  his  only  mistress,  claiming  his  entire 
time,  exasperating  him  with  fickleness,  but  still  requir 
ing  that  supreme  devotion  of  which  his  nature  was 
capable.  It  is  possible  that  Miss  Carmen  saw  this 
too,  and  so  set  about  with  feminine  tact,  if  not  to  sup 
plement,  at  least  to  make  her  rival  less  pertinacious 
and  absorbing.  Apart  from  this  object,  she  zealously 
labored  in  her  profession,  yet  with  small  pecuniary 
result,  I  fear.  Local  art  was  at  a  discount  in  Cali 
fornia.  The  scenery  of  the  country  had  not  yet 
become  famous;  rather  it  was  reserved  for  a  certain 
eastern  artist,  already  famous,  to  make  it  so ;  and  peo 
ple  cared  little  for  the  reproduction,  under  their  very 
noses,  of  that  which  they  saw  continually  with  their 
own  eyes,  and  valued  not.  So  that  little  Mistress 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  115 

Carmen  was  fain  to  divert  her  artist  soul  to  support 
her  plump  little  material  body ;  and  made  divers  excur 
sions  into  the  regions  of  ceramic  art,  painting  on  vel 
vet,  illuminating  missals,  decorating  China,  and  the 
like.  I  have  in  my  possession  some  wax  flowers  —  a 
startling  fuchsia  and  a  bewildering  dahlia  —  sold  for 
a  mere  pittance  by  this  little  lady,  whose  pictures 
lately  took  the  prize  at  a  foreign  exhibition,  shortly 
after  she  had  been  half  starved  by  a  California  public, 
and  claimed  by  a  California  press  as  its  fostered  child 
of  genius. 

Of  these  struggles  and  triumphs  Thatcher  had  no 
knowledge ;  yet  he  was  perhaps  more  startled  than  he 
would  own  to  himself  when,  one  December  day,  he 
received  this  despatch :  "  Come  to  Washington  at  once. 
—  Carmen  De  Haro." 

"  Carmen  De  Haro  !  "  I  grieve  to  state  that  such 
was  the  pre-occupation  of  this  man,  elected  by  fate  to 
be  the  hero  of  the  solitary  amatory  episode  of  this 
story,  that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  recall  her. 
When  the  honest  little  figure  that  had  so  manfully 
stood  up  against  him,  and  had  proved  her  sex  by  after 
wards  running  away  from  him,  came  back  at  last  to 
his  memory,  he  was  at  first  mystified  and  then  self- 
reproachful.  He  had  been,  he  felt  vaguely,  untrue  to 
himself.  He  had  been  remiss  to  the  self-confessed 
daughter  of  his  enemy.  Yet  why  should  she  telegraph 


116  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

to  him,  and  what  was  she  doing  in  Washington  ?  To 
all  these  speculations  it  is  to  be  said  to  his  credit  that 
he  looked  for  no  sentimental  or  romantic  answer. 
Royal  Thatcher  was  naturally  modest  and  self-depre 
ciating  in  his  relations  to  the  other  sex,  as  indeed  most 
men  who  are  apt  to  be  successful  with  women  gene 
rally  are,  despite  a  vast  degree  of  superannuated  bosh 
to  the  contrary.  To  the  half  dozen  women  who  are 
startled  by  sheer  audacity  into  submission  there  are 
scores  who  are  piqued  by  a  self-respectful  patience ; 
and  where  a  woman  has  to  do  half  the  wooing,  she 
generally  makes  a  pretty  sure  thing  of  it. 

In  his  bewilderment  Thatcher  had  overlooked  a 
letter  lying  on  his  ta,ble.  It  was  from  his  Washington 
lawyer.  The  concluding  paragraph  caught  his  eye, — 
"  Perhaps  it  would  be  well  if  you  came  here  yourself. 
Roscommon  is  here ;  and  they  say  there  is  a  niece  of 
Grarcia's,  lately  appeared,  who  is  likely  to  get  up  a 
strong  social  sympathy  for  the  old  Mexican.  I  do  n't 
know  that  they  expect  to  prove  anything  by  her;  but 
I  'm  told  she  is  attractive  and  clever,  and  has  enlisted 
the  sympathies  of  the  delegation."  Thatcher  laid  the 
letter  down  a  little  indignantly.  Strong  men  are  quite 
as  liable  as  weak  women  are  to  sudden  inconsistencies 
on  any  question  they  may  have  in  common.  What 
right  had  this  poor  little  bud  he  had  cherished, —  he 
was  quite  satisfied  now  that  he  had  cherished  her,  and 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  117 

really  had  suffered  from  lier  absence, —  what  right  had 
she  to  suddenly  blossom  in  the  sunshine  of  power  to 
be,  perhaps,  plucked  and  worn  by  one  of  his  enemies. 
He  did  not  agree  with  his  lawyer  that  she  was  in  any 
way  connected  with  his  enemies:  he  trusted  to  her 
masculine  loyalty  that  far.  But  here  was  something 
vaguely  dangerous  to  the  feminine  mind, —  position, 
flattery,  power.  He  was  almost  as  firmly  satisfied  now 
that  he  had  been  wronged  and  neglected  as  he  had 
been  positive  a  few  moments  before  that  he  had  been 
remiss  in  his  attention.  The  irritation,  although  mo 
mentary,  was  enough  to  decide  this  strong  man.  He 
telegraphed  to  San  Francisco;  and,  having  missed  the 
steamer,  secured  an  overland  passage  to  Washington ; 
thought  better  of  it,  and  partly  changed  his  mind  an 
hour  after  the  ticket  was  purchased;  but,  manlike, 
having  once  made  a  practical  step  in  a  wrong  direction, 
he  kept  on  rather  than  admit  an  inconsistency  to  him 
self.  Yet  he  was  not  entirely  satisfied  that  his  journey 
was  a  business  one.  The  impulsive,  weak  little  Mis 
tress  Carmen  had  prudently  scored  one  against  the 
strong  man. 

Only,  a  small  part  of  the  present  great  trans-conti 
nental  railway  at  this  time  had  been  built,  and  was 
but  piers  at  either  end  of  a  desolate  and  wild  expanse 
as  yet  unbridged.  When  the  overland  traveller  left 
the  rail  at  Reno,  he  left,  as  it  were,  civilization  with 


118  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

it;  and,  until  he  reached  the  Nebraska  frontier,  the 
rest  of  his  road  was  only  the  old  emigrant  trail  trav 
ersed  by  the  coaches  of  the  Overland  Company.  Ex 
cepting  a  part  of  '  Devil's  Canon,'  the  way  was  unpic- 
turesque  and  flat ;  and  the  passage  of  the  llocky 
Mountains,  far  from  suggesting  the  alleged  poetry  of 
that  region,  was  only  a  reminder  of  those  sterile  dis 
tances  of  a  level  New-England  landscape.  The  jour 
ney  was  a  dreary  monotony  that  was  scarcely  enlivened 
by  its  discomforts,  never  amounting  to  actual  accident 
or  incident,  but  utterly  destructive  to  all  nervous  tis 
sue.  Insanity  often  supervened.  "  On  the  third  day 
out,"  said  Hank  Monk,  driver,  speaking  casually  but 
charitably  of  a  'fare,' — "on  the  third  day  out,  after 
axing  no  end  of  questions  and  getting  no  answers,  he 
took  to  chewing  straws  that  he  picked  outer  the  cush 
ion,  and  kussin'  to  hisself.  From  that  very  day  I 
knew  it  was  all  over  with  him,  and  I  handed  him  over 
to  his  friends  at  *  Shy  Ann,'  strapped  to  the  back  seat, 
and  ravin'  and  cussin'  at  Ben  Holliday,  the  gent'- 
manly  proprietor."  It  is  presumed  that  the  unfortu 
nate  tourist's  indignation  was  excited  at  the  late  Mr. 
Benjamin  Holliday,  then  the  proprietor  of  the  line, — 
an  evidence  of  his  insanity  that  no  one  who  knew  that 
large-hearted,  fastidious,  and  elegantly-cultured  Cali- 
fornian,  since  allied  to  foreign  nobility,  will  for  a  mo 
ment  doubt. 


,      The  Story  of  a  Mine.  119 

Mr.  Royal  Tliatchcr  was  too  old  and  experienced  a 
mountaineer  to  do  aught  but  accept  patiently  and  cyn 
ically  his  brother  Californian's  method  of  increasing 
his  profits.  As  it  was  generally  understood  that  any 
one  who  came  from  California  by  that  route  had  some 
dark  design,  the  victim  received  little  sympathy. 
Thatcher's  equable  temperament  and  indomitable  will 
stood  him  in  good  stead,  and  helped  him  cheerfully  in 
this  emergency.  He  ate  his  scant  meals,  and  other 
wise  took  care  of  the  functions  of  his  weak  human 
nature,  when  and  where  he  could,  without  grumbling, 
and  at  times  earned  even  the  praise  of  his  driver  by 
his  ability  to  *  rough  it.'  Which  *  roughing  it,'  by  the 
way,  meant  the  ability  of  the  passengers  to  accept  the 
incompetency  of  the  Company.  It  is  true  there  were 
times  when  he  regretted  that  he  had  not  taken  the 
steamer;  but  then  he  reflected  that  he  was  one  of  a 
Vigilance  Committee,  sworn  to  hang  that  admirable 
man,  the  late  Commodore  Cornelius  Vanderbilt,  for 
certain  practices  and  cruelties  done  upon  the  bodies  of 
certain  steerage  passengers  by  his  line,  and  for  divers 
irregularities  in  their  transportation.  I  mention  this 
fact  merely  to  show  how  so  practical  and  stout  a  voy 
ager  as  Thatcher  might  ,have  confounded  the  perplex 
ities  attending  the  administration  of  a  great  steamship 
company  with  selfish  greed  and  brutality ;  and  that 
he,  with  other  Californians,  may  not  have  known  the 


120  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

fact,  since  recorded  by  the  Commodore's  family  clergy 
man,  that  the  great  millionaire  was  always  true  to  the 
hymns  of  his  childhood. 

Nevertheless,  Thatcher  found  time  to  be  cheerful 
and  helpful  to  his  fellow  passengers,  and  even  to  be 
so  far  interesting  to  '  Yuba  Bill,'  the  driver,  as  to  have 
the  box  seat  placed  at  his  disposal.  "But,"  said 
Thatcher,  in  some  concern,  "the  box  seat  was  pur 
chased  by  that  other  gentleman  in  Sacramento.  He 
paid  extra  for  it,  and  his  name's  on  your  way-bill!" 
"  That,"  said  Yuba  Bill,  scornfully,  "  do  n't  fetch  me 
even  ef  he  'd  chartered  the  whole  shebang.  Look  yar, 
do  you  reckon  I  'm  goin'  to  spile  my  temper  by  setting 
next  to  a  man  with  a  game  eye  ?  And  such  an  eye ! 
Grewhillikins !  Why,  darn  my  skin,  the  other  day  when 
we  war  watering  at  Webster's,  he  got  down  and  passed 
in  front  of  the  off-leader, —  that  yer  pinto  colt  that 's 
bin  accustomed  to  injins,  grizzlies,  and  buffalo,  and 
I  'm  bless  ef ,  when  her  eye  tackled  his,  ef  she  did  n't 
jist  git  up  and  rar  round  that  I  reckoned  I  'd  hev  to 
go  down  and  take  them  blinders  off  from  her  eyes  and 
clap  on  his"  "  But  he  paid  his  money,  and  is  enti 
tled  to  his  seat,"  persisted  Thatcher.  "Mebbe  he  is 
—  in  the  office  of  the  Kempeny,"  growled  Yuba  Bill  ; 
"but  it's  time  some  folks  knowed  that  out  in  the 
plains  I  run  this  yer  team  myself." — A  fact  which 
was  self-evident  to  most  of  the  passengers.  "I  sup- 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  121 

pose  his  authority  is  as  absolute  on  this  dreary  waste 
as  a  ship  captain's  in  mid  ocean,"  exclaimed  Thatcher 
to  the  baleful-eyed  stranger.  Mr.  Wiles  —  whom  the 
reader  has  recognized  —  assented  with  the  public  side 
of  his  face,  but  looked  vengeance  at  Yuba  Bill  with 
the  other,  while  Thatcher,  innocent  of  the  presence  of 
one  of  his  worst  enemies,  placated  Bill  so  far  as  to 
restore  Wiles  to  his  rights.  Wiles  thanked  him. 
"Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  far?" 
Wiles  asked  insinuatingly.  "  To  Washington,"  replied 
Thatcher  frankly.  "Washington  is  a  gay  city  during 
the  session,"  again  suggested  the  stranger.  "  I  'm 
going  on  business,"  said  Thatcher  bluntly. 

A  trifling  incident  occurred  at  Pine-Tree  Crossing 
which  did  not  heighten  Yuba  Bill's  admiration  of  the 
stranger.  As  Bill  opened  the  double  locked  box  in 
the  'boot'  of  the  coach  —  sacred  to  Wells,  Fargo,  & 
Co.'s  Express  and  the  Overland  Company's  treasures 
—  Mr.  Wiles  perceived  a  small,  black  morocco  porte- 
manteau  among  the  parcels.  "Ah,  you  carry  baggage 
there  too  ?  "  he  said  sweetly.  "  Not  often,"  responded 
Yuba  Bill  shortly.  "  Ah,  this  then  contains  valua 
bles?"  "It  belongs  to  that  man  whose  seat  you Ve 
got,"  said  Yuba  Bill,  who,  for  insulting  purposes  of 
liis  own,  preferred  to  establish  the  fiction  that  Wiles 
was  an  interloper;  "and  ef  he  reckons,  in  a  sorter 
mixed  kempeny  like  this,  to  lock  up  his  portmantle,  I 


122  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

don't  know  who's  business  it  is.  Who?"  continued 
Bill,  lashing  himself  into  a  simulated  rage,  "  who,  in 
blank,  is  running  this  yer  team  ?  Ilcy  ?  Mcbbe  you 
think,  sittin'  up  thar  on  the  box  seat,  you  are.  Mebbe 
you  think  you  kin  see  round  corners  with  that  thar 
eye,  and  kin  pull  up  for  teams  round  corners,  on  down 
grades,  a  mile  ahead  ? "  But  here  Thatcher,  who, 
with  something  of  Lancelot's  concern  for  Modred,  had 
a  noble  pity  for  all  infirmities,  interfered  so  sternly 
that  Yuba  Bill  stopped. 

On  the  fourth  day  they  struck  a  blinding  snow 
storm,  while  ascending  the  dreary  plateau  that  hence 
forward  for  six  hundred  miles  was  to  be  their  road 
bed.  The  horses,  after  floundering  through  the  drift, 
gave  out  completely  on  reaching  the  next  station,  and 
the  prospects  ahead,  to  all  but  the  experienced  eye, 
looked  doubtful.  A  few  passengers  advised  taking 
to  sledges,  others  a  postponement  of  the  journey  until 
the  weather  changed.  Yuba  Bill  alone  was  for  press 
ing  forward  as  they  were.  "Two  miles  more  and 
we  're  on  the  high  grade,  whar  the  wind  is  strong 
enough  to  blow  you  through  the  windy,  and  jist  peart 
enough  to  pack  away  over  them  cliffs  every  inch  of 
snow  that  falls.  I  '11  jist  skirmish  round  in  and  out  o' 
them  drifts  on  these  four  wheels  whar  ye  can't  drag 
one  o'  them  flat-bottomed  dry-goods  boxes  through  a 
drift."  Bill  had  a  California  whip's  contempt  for  a 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  123 

sledge.  But  he  was  warmly  seconded  "by  Thatcher, 
who  had  the  next  best  thing  to  experience,  the  instinct 
that  taught  him  to  read  character,  and  take  advan 
tage  of  another  man's  experience.  "  Them  that  wants 
to  stop  kin  do  so,"  said  Bill  authoritatively,  cutting  the 
Gordian  knot ;  "  them  as  wants  to  take  a  sledge  can 
do  so,  —  thar  's  one  in  the  barn.  Them  as  wants  to 
go  on  with  me  and  the  relay  will  come  on."  Mr. 
Wiles  selected  the  sledge  and  a  driver,  a  few  remained 
for  the  next  stage,  and  Thatcher,  with  two  others, 
decided  to  accompany  Yuba  Bill.  These  changes 
took  up  some  valuable  time;  and  the  storm  continu 
ing,  the  stage  was  run  under  the  shed,  the  passengers 
gathering  around  the  station  fire;  and  not  until  after 
midnight  did  Yuba  Bill  put  in  the  relays.  "  I  wish 
you  a  good  journey,"  said  Wiles,  as  he  drove  from 
the  shed  as  Bill  entered.  Bill  vouchsafed  no  reply, 
but,  addressing  himself  to  the  driver,  said  curtly,  as  if 
giving  an  order  for  the  delivery  of  goods,  "  Shove  him 
out  at  Rawlings,"  and  passed  contemptuously  around 
to  the  tail  board  of  the  sled,  and  returned  to  the  har 
nessing  of  his  relay. 

The  moon  came  out  and  shone  high  as  Yuba  Bill 
once  more  took  the  reins  in  his  hands.  The  wind, 
which  instantly  attacked  them  as  they  reached  the  level, 
seemed  to  make  the  driver's  theory  plausible,  and  for 
half  a  mile  the  road  bed  was  swept  clean,  and  frozen 


124  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

hard.  Further  on  a  tongue  of  snow,  extending  from 
a  boulder  to  the  right,  reached  across  their  path  to  the 
height  of  two  or  three  feet.  But  Yuba  Bill  dashed 
through  a  part  of  it,  and  by  skillful  maneuvering  cir 
cumvented  the  rest.  But  even  as  the  obstacle  was 
passed,  the  coach  dropped  with  an  ominous  lurch  on 
one  side,  and  the  off  fore  wheel  flew  off  in  the  dark 
ness.  Bill  threw  the  horses  back  on  their  haunches ; 
but,  before  their  momentum  could  be  checked,  the  near 
hind  wheel  slipped  away,  the  vehicle  rocked  violently, 
plunged  backwards  and  forwards,  and  stopped. 

Yuba  Bill  was  on  the  road  in  an  instant  with  his 
lantern.  Then  followed  an  outbreak  of  profanity 
which  I  regret,  for  artistic  purposes,  exceeds  that 
generous  limit  which  a  sympathizing  public  has  already 
extended  to  me  in  the  explication  of  character.  Let 
me  state,  therefore,  that  in  a  very  few  moments  he 
succeeded  in  disparaging  the  characters  of  his  employ 
ers,  their  male  and  female  relatives,  the  coach  builder, 
the  station  keeper,  the  road  on  which  he  travelled,  and 
the  travellers  themselves,  with  occasional  broad  exple 
tives  addressed  to  himself  and  his  own  relatives.  For 
the  spirit  of  this  and  a  more  cultivated  poetry  of 
expression,  I  beg  to  refer  the  temperate  reader  to  the 
3d  chapter  of  Job. 

The  passengers  knew  Bill,  and  sat,  conservative, 
patient,  and  expectant.  As  yet  the  cause  of  the  catas-. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  125 

trophe  was  not  known.  At  kst  Thatcher's  voice  came 
from  the  box  seat : 

" What  »s  up,  Bill?" 

"  Not  a  blank  lynch  pin  in  the  whole  blank  coach," 
was  the  answer. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Yuba  Bill  executed  a 
wild  war  dance  of  helpless  rage. 

"  Blank  the  blank  enchanted  thing  to  blank !  " 

(I  beg  here  to  refer  the  fastidious  and  cultivated 
reader  to  the  only  adjective  I  have  dared  transcribe 
of  this  actual  oath  which  I  once  had  the  honor  of  hear 
ing.  He  will  I  trust  not  fail  to  recognize  the  old 
classic  dcemon  in  this  wild  western  objurgation.) 

"  Who  did  it  ?  "  asked  Thatcher. 

Yuba  Bill  did  not  reply,  but  dashed  up  again  to 
the  box,  unlocked  the  'boot,'  and  screamed  out: 

"The  man  that  stole  your  portmantle, — Wiles!" 

Thatcher  laughed : 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  Bill.  A  'biled'  shirt, 
an  extra  collar,  and  a  few  papers.  Nothing  more." 

Yuba  Bill  slowly  descended.  When  he  reached 
the  ground,  he  plucked  Thatcher  aside  by  his  coat 
sleeve : 

"Ye  do  n't  mean  to  say  ye  had  nothing  in  that  bag 
ye  was  trying  to  get  away  with  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  laughing  Thatcher  frankly. 

"And  that  Wiles  war  n't  one  o'  them  detectives?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge,  certainly." 


126  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Yuba  Bill  sighed  sadly,  and  returned  to  assist  in 
tlio  replacing  of  the  coach  on  its  wheels  again. 

"Never  mind,  Bill,"  said  one  of  the  passengers 
sympathizingly,  "we  '11  catch  that  man  Wiles  at  Raw- 
lings  sure;"  and  he  looked  around  at  the  inchoate 
vigilance  committee,  already  '  rounding  into  form ' 
about  him. 

"Ketch  him!"  returned  Yuba  Bill,  derisively, 
"why  we  've  got  to  go  back  to  the  station;  and  afore 
we  're  off  agin  he  's  pinted  fur  Clarmont  on  the  relay 
we  lose.  Ketch  him!  H-ll  's  full  of  such  ketches!" 

There  was  clearly  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to 
the  station  to  await  the  repairing  of  the  coach.  While 
this  was  being  done  Yuba  Bill  again  drew  Thatcher 
aside : 

"I  allers  suspected  that  chap's  game  eye,  but  I 
did  n't  somehow  allow  for  anything  like  this.  I  reck 
oned  it  was  only  the  square  thing  to  look  arter  things 
gen'rally,  and  'specially  your  traps.  So,  to  purvent 
troubil,  and  keep  things  about  okal,  ez  he  was  goin' 
away,  I  sorter  lifted  this  yer  bag  of  hiz  outer  the  tail 
board  of  his  sleigh.  I  don't  know  as  it  is  any 
exchange  or  compensation,  but  it  may  give  ye  a 
chance  to  spot  him  agin,  or  him  you.  It  strikes  me  as 
bein'  far-minded  and  squar' ; "  and  with  these  words 
he  deposited  at  the  feet  of  the  astounded  Thatcher 
the  black  travelling  bag  of  Mr.  Wiles. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  127 

"But,  Bill, —  see  here!  I  can't  take  this!"  inter 
rupted  Thatcher  hastily.  You  can't  swear  that  he 's 
taken  my  bag, — and — and, — blank  it  all, —  this  won't 
do,  you  know.  I've  no  right  to  this  man's  things, 
even  if " 

"Hold  your  bosses,"  said  Bill  gravely;  "I  onder- 
took  to  take  charge  o'  your  traps.  I  did  n't  —  at  least 
that  d — d  wall-eyed  —  Thar 's  a  portmantle !  I  do  n't 
know  who's  it  is.  Take  it." 

Half  amused,  half  embarrassed,  yet  still  protesting, 
Thatcher  took  the  bag  in  his  hands. 

"  Ye  might  open  it  in  my  presence,"  suggested 
Yuba  Bill  gravely. 

Thatcher,  half  laughingly,  did  so.  It  was  full  of 
papers  and  semi-legal-looking  documents.  Thatcher's 
own  name  on  one  of  them  caught  his  eye ;  he  opened 
the  paper  hastily  and  perused  it.  The  smile  faded 
from  his  lips. 

"  Well,"  said  Yuba  Bill,  "  suppose  we  call  it  a  fair 
exchange  at  present." 

Thatcher  was  still  examining  the  papers.  Suddenly 
this  cautious,  strong-minded  man  looked  up  into  Yuba 
Bill's  waiting  face,  and  said  quietly,  in  the  despicable 
slang  of  the  epoch  and  region : 

"It 'sago!    Suppose  we  do." 


128  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 


CHAPTER  XIH 

HOW    IT    BECAME    FAMOUS. 

Yuba  Bill  was  right  in  believing  that  Wiles  would 
lose  no  time  at  Rawlings.  He  left  there  on  a  fleet 
horse  before  Bill  had  returned  with  the  broken-down 
coach  to  the  last  station,  and  distanced  the  telegram 
sent  to  detain  him  two  hours.  Leaving  the  stage  road 
and  its  dangerous  telegraphic  stations,  he  pushed  south 
ward  to  Denver  over  the  army  trail,  in  company  with 
a  half-breed  packer,  crossing  the  Missouri  before 
Thatcher  had  reached  Julesburg.  When  Thatcher 
was  at  Omaha,  Wiles  was  already  in  St.  Louis;  and 
as  the  Pullman  car  containing  the  hero  of  the  '  Blue 
Mass'  mine  rolled  into  Chicago,  Wiles  was  already 
walking  the  streets  of  the  national  capital.  Neverthe 
less,  he  had  time  en  route  to  sink  in  the  waters  of  the 
North  Platte,  with  many  expressions  of  disgust,  the 
little  black  porte-manteau  belonging  to  Thatcher,  con 
taining  his  dressing  case,  a  few  unimportant  letters, 
and  an  extra  shirt,  to  wonder  why  simple  men  did  not 
travel  with  their  important  documents  and  valuables, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  129 

and  to  set  on  foot  some  prudent  and  cautious  inquiries 
regarding  liis  own  lost  carpet  bag  and  its  important 
contents. 

But  for  these  trifles  he  had  every  reason  to  be  sat 
isfied  with  the  progress  of  his  plans.  "  It's  all  right," 
said  Mrs.  Hopkinson  merrily ;  "  while  you  and  Gash- 
wiler  have  been  working  with  your  '  stock,'  and  treat 
ing  the  whole  world  as  if  it  cculd  be  bribed,  I  've  done 
more  with  that  earnos",  self-believing,  self-deceiving, 
and  perfectly-pathetic  Roscommon  than  all  you  fellows 
put  together.  Why,  I  Ve  told  his  pitiful  story,  and 
drawn  tears  from  the  eyes  of  Senators  and  Cabinet 
Ministers.  More  than  that,  I  've  introduced  him  into 
society,  put  him  in  a  dress  coat, —  such  a  figure !  — 
and  you  know  how  the  best  folk  worship  everything 
that  is  outre  as  the  sincere  thing.  I  've  made  him  a 
complete  success.  Why,  only  the  other  night,  when 
Senator  Misnancy  and  Judge  Fitzdawdle  were  here, 
after  making  him  tell  his  story, —  which  you  know  I 
think  he  really  believes, —  I  sang  *  There  came  to  the 
beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin,'  and  my  husband  told  me 
afterwards  it  was  worth  at  least  a  dozen  votes." 

"  But  about  this  rival  of  yours, —  this  niece  of  Gar- 
cia's?" 

"Another  of  your  blunders ;  you  men  know  nothing 
of  women.  Firstly,  she 's  a  swarthy  little  brunette, 
with  dots  for  eyes ;  and  strides  like  a  man,  dresses  like 


130  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

a  dowdy,  do  n't  wear  stays,  and  has  no  style.  Then, 
she  's  a  single  woman,  and  alone ;  and,  although  she 
affects  to  be  an  artist,  and  has  Bohemian  ways,  do  n't 
you  see  she  can't  go  into  society  without  a  chaperon  or 
somebody  to  go  with  her.  Nonsense." 

"  But,"  persisted  Wiles,  "  she  must  have  some  power ; 
there  's  Judge  Mason  and  Senator  Pcabody,  who  are 
constantly  talking  about  her;  and  Dinwiddio  of  Vir 
ginia  escorted  her  through  the  Capitol  the  other  day." 

Mistress  Hopkinson  laughed.  "  Mason  and  Peabody 
aspire  to  be  thought  literary  and  artistic,  and  Dinwid- 
die  wanted  to  pique  me!  " 

"  But  Thatcher  is  no  fool "  - 

"Is  Thatcher  a  lady's  man?"  queried  the  lady 
suddenly. 

"Hardly,  I  should  say,"  responded  Wiles.  "He 
pretends  to  be  absorbed  in  his  swindle  and  devoted  to 
his  mine;  and  I  don't  think  that  even  you" — he 
stopped  with  a  slight  sneer. 

"  There,  you  are  misunderstanding  me  again,  and, 
what  is  worse,  you  are  misunderstanding  your  case. 
Thatcher  is  pleased  with  her  because  he  has  probably 
seen  no  one  else.  Wait  till  he  comes  to  Washington 
and  has  an  opportunity  for  comparison ;  "  and  she  cast 
a  frank  glance  at  her  mirror,  where  Wiles,  with  a  sar 
donic  bow,  left  her  standing. 

Mr.  Gashwiler  was  quite  as  confident  of  his  own 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  131 

success  with  Congress.  "We  are  within  a  few  days 
of  the  end  of  the  session.  We  will  manage  to  have 
it  taken  up  and  rushed  through  before  that  fellow 
Thatcher  knows  what  he  is  about." 

"If  it  could  be  done  before  he  gets  here,"  said 
Wiles,  "it's  a  reasonably  sure  thing.  He  is  delayed 
two  days :  he  might  have  been  delayed  longer."  Here 
Mr.  Wiles  sighed.  If  the  accident  had  happened  on 
a  mountain  road,  and  the  stage  had  been  precipitated 
over  the  abyss,  what  valuable  time  would  have  been 
saved,  and  success  become  a  surety  ?  But  Mr.  Wiles's 
functions  as  an  advocate  did  not  include  murder;  at 
least,  he  was  doubtful  if  it  could  be  taxed  as  costs. 

"We  need  have  no  fears,  sir,"  resumed  Mr.  Gash- 
wilci;  "The  matter  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  high 
est  tribunal  of  appeal  in  the  country.  It  will  meat, 
sir,  with  inflexible  justice.  I  have  already  prepared 
some  remarks " 

"By  the  way,"  interrupted  Wiles  infelicitously, 
"  where  's  your  young  man, —  your  private  secretary, 
—  Dobbs?" 

The  Congressman  for  a  moment  looked  confused. 
"  He  is  not  here.  And  I  must  correct  your  error  in 
applying  that  term  to  him.  I  have  never  put  my  con 
fidence  in  the  hands  of  any  one." 

"  But  you  introduced  him  to  me  as  your  secretary  ?  " 

"  A  mere  honorary  title,  sir.     A  brevet  rank.     I 


132  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

might,  it  is  truo,  liavo  thought  to  repose  such  a  trust 
in  him.  But  I  was  deceived,  sir,  as  I  fear  I  am  too 
apt  to  be  when  I  permit  my  feelings  as  a  man  to  over 
come  my  duty  as  an  American  legislator.  Mr.  Dobbs 
enjoyed  my  patronage  and  the  opportunity  it  gave  me 
to  introduce  him  into  public  life  only  to  abuse  it.  lie 
became,  I  fear,  deeply  indebted.  His  extravagance 
was  unlimited,  his  ambition  unbounded,  but  without, 
sir,  a  cash  basis.  I  advanced  money  to  him  from  time  to 
time  upon  the  little  property  you  so  generously  extended 
to  him  for  his  services.  But  it  was  quickly  dissipated. 
Yet,  sir,  such  is  the  ingratitude  of  man  that  his  family 
lately  appealed  to  me  for  assistance.  I  felt  it  was 
necessary  to  be  stern,  and  I  refused.  I  would  not 
for  the  sake  of  his  family  say  anything,  but  I  have 
missed,  sir,  books  from  my  library.  On  the  day  after 
he  left,  two  volumes  of  Patent  Office  reports  and  a 
Blue  Book  of  Congress,  purchased  that  day  by  me  at 
a  store  on  Pennsylvania  avenue,  were  missing, —  miss 
ing  !  I  had  difficulty,  sir,  great  difficulty  in  keeping 
it  from  the  papers ! " 

As  Mr.  Wiles  had  heard  the  story  already  from 
Gashwiler's  acquaintances,  with  more  or  less -free  com 
ment  on  the  gifted  legislator's  economy,  he  could  not 
help  thinking  that  the  difficulty  had  been  great  indeed. 
But  he  only  fixed  his  malevolent  eye  on  Gashwiler 
and  said: 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  133 

"So  he  is  gone,  eh?" 
"Yes." 

"  And  you  've  made  an  enemy  of  him  ?  That 's 
bad." 

Mr.  Gashwilcr  tried  to  look  dignifiedly  uncon 
cerned  ;  but  something  in  his  visitor's  manner  made 
him  uneasy. 

"I  say  it  is  bad,  if  you  have.  Listen.  Before  I 
left  here,  I  found  at  a  boarding-house  where  he  had 
boarded,  and  still  owed  a  bill,  a  trunk  which  the  land 
lord  retained.  Opening  it,  I  found  some  letters  and 
papers  of  yours,  with  certain  memoranda  of  his,  which 
I  thought  ought  to  be  in  your  possession.  As  an 
alleged  friend  of  his,  I  redeemed  the  trunk  by  paying 
the  amount  of  his  bill,  and  secured  the  more  valuable 
papers." 

Gashwiler,  whose  face  had  grown  apoplcctically 
suffused  as  Wiles  went  on,  at  last  gasped:  "But  you 
got  the  trunk,  and  have  the  papers?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  no ;  and  that 's  why  it 's  bad." 
"  But,  good  God !  what  have  you  done  with  them  ?  " 
"  I  've  lost  them  somewhere  on  the  Overland  Road." 
Mr.  Gashwiler  sat  for  a  few  moments  speechless, 
vacillating  between  a  purple  rage  and  a  pallid  fear. 
Then  he  said  hoarsely  : 

"  They  are  all  blank  forgeries, —  every  one  of  them." 
"  Oh,  no !  "  said  Wiles,  smiling  blandly  on  his  dex- 


134  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

ter  side,  and  enjoying  the  whole  scene  malevolently 
with  his  sinister  eye.  "Tour  papers  are  all  genuine, 
and  I  won't  say  are  not  all  right,  but  unfortunately  I 
had  in  the  same  bag  so:ne  memoranda  of  my  own  for 
the  uso  of  my  client,  that,  you  understand,  might  be 
put  to  some  bad  use  if  found  by  a  clever  man." 

The  two  rascals  looked  at  each  other.  There  is  on 
the  whole  really  very  little  'honor  among  thieves,' — 
at  least  great  ones, —  and  the  inferior  rascal  suc 
cumbed  at  the  reflection  of  what  he  might  do  if  he 
were  in  the  other  rascal's  place.  "See  here,  Wiles," 
he  said,  relaxing  his  dignity  with  the  perspiration  that 
oozed  from  every  pore,  and  made  the  collar  of  his 
shirt  a  mere  limp  rag.  "See  here,  We" — this  first 
use  of  the  plural  was  equivalent  to  a  confession  — 
"we  must  get  them  papers." 

"Of  course,"  said  Wiles  coolly,  "if  we  can,  and  if 
Thatcher  does  n't  get  wind  of  them." 

"He  cannot." 

"  He  was  on  the  coach  when  I  lost  them,  coming 
East." 

Mr.  Gashwiler  paled  again.  In  the  emergency  he 
had  recourse  to  the  sideboard  and  a  bottle,  forget 
ting  Wiles.  Ten  minutes  before  Wiles  would  have 
remained  seated;  but  it  is  recorded  that  he  rose, 
took  the  bottle  from  the  gifted  Grashwiler's  fingers, 
helped  himself  first,  and  then  sat  down. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  135 

"  Yes,  but,  my  boy,"  said  Gashwiler,  now  rapidly 
changing  situations  with  the  cooler  Wiles;  "  yes,  but, 
old  fellow,"  he  added,  poking  Wiles  with  a  fat  fore 
finger,  "don't  you  see  the  whole  thing  will  be  up 
before  he  gets  here." 

"  Yes,"  said  Wiles  gloomily,  "  but  those  lazy,  easy, 
honest  men  have  a  way  of  popping  up  just  at  the  nick 
of  time.  They  never  need  hurry ;  all  things  wait  for 
them.  Why,  do  n't  you  remember  that  on  the  very 
day  Mrs.  Hopkinson  and  I  and  you  got  the  President 
to  sign  that  patent,  that  very  day  one  of  them  d— n 
fellows  turns  up  from  San  Francisco  or  Australia, 
having  taken  his  own  time  to  get  here, —  gets  here 
about  half  an  hour  after  the  President  had  signed  the 
patent  and  sent  it  over  to  the  office,  finds  the  right 
man  to  introduce  him  to  the  President,  has  a  talk  with 
him,  makes  him  sign  an  order  countermanding  its 
issuance,  and  undoes  all  that  has  been  done  in  six 
years  in  one  hour." 

"  Yes,  but  Congress  is  a  tribunal  that  does  not 
revoke  its  decrees,"  said  Crash wiler  with  a  return  of 
his  old  manner;  "at  least,"  he  added,  observing  an 
incredulous  shrug  in  the  shoulder  of  his  companion, 
"  at  least  during  the  session" 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Wiles,  quietly  taking  his  hat. 

"We  shall  see,  sir,"  said  the  member  from  Remus 
with  dignity. 


136  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHAT    CULTURE    DID    FOR    IT. 

There  was  at  this  time  in  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States  an  cmin6nt  and  respected  gentleman,  scholarly, 
orderly,  honorable,  and  radical, —  the  fit  representative 
of  a  scholarly,  orderly,  honorable,  and  radical  Com 
monwealth.  For  many  years  he  had  held  his  trust 
with  conscious  rectitude,  and  a  slight  depreciation  of 
other  forms  of  merit ;  and  for  as  many  years  had  been 
as  regularly  returned  to  his  seat  by  his  constituency 
with  equally  conscious  rectitude  in  themselves  and  an 
equal  skepticism  regarding  others.  Removed  by  his 
nature  beyond  the  reach  of  certain  temptations,  and 
by  circumstances  beyond  even  the  knowledge  of  others, 
his  social  and  political  integrity  was  spotless.  An 
orator  and  practical  debater,  his  refined  tastes  kept 
him  from  personality,  and  the  public  recognition  of  the 
complete  unselfishness  of  his  motives  and  the  magni 
tude  of  his  dogmas  protected  him  from  scurrility. 
His  principles  had  never  been  appealed  to  by  a  bribe ; 
he  had  rarely  been  approached  by  an  emotion. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  1C7 

A  man  of  polished  taste  in  art  and  literature,  and 
possessing  the  means  to  gratify  it,  his  luxurious  home 
was  filled  with  treasures  he  had  himself  collected,  and 
further  enhanced  by  the  stamp  of  his  appreciation. 
His  library  had  not  only  the  elegance  of  adornment 
that  his  wealth  could  bring  and  his  taste  approve,  but 
a  certain  refined  negligence  of  habitual  use,  and  the 
easy  disorder  of  the  artist's  workshop.  All  this  was 
quickly  noted  by  a  young  girl  who  stood  on  its 
threshold  at  the  close  of  a  dull  January  day. 

The  card  that  had  been  brought  to  the  Senator  bore 
the  name  of  '  Carmen  dc  Haro ';  and  modestly  in  the 
right  hand  corner,  in  almost  microscopic  script,  the 
further  description  of  herself  as  *  Artist.'  Perhaps  the 
picturcscjucncss  of  the  name,  and  its  historic  sugges 
tion  caught  the  scholar's  taste,  for  when  to  his  request, 
through  his  servant,  that  she  would  be  kind  enough  to 
state  her  business,  she  replied  as  frankly  that  her 
business  was  personal  to  himself,  he  directed  that  she 
should  be  admitted.  Then  entrenching  himself  behind 
his  library  table,  overlooking  a  bastion  of  books,  and 
a  glacis  of  pamphlets  and  papers,  and  throwing  into 
his  forehead  and  eyes  an  expression  of  utter  disqualifi 
cation  for  anything  but  the  business  before  him,  he 
calmly  awaited  the  intruder. 

She  came,  and  for  an  instant  stood,  hesitatingly, 
framing  herself  as  a  picture  in  the  door.  Mrs.  Hop- 


138  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

kinson  was  right, —  she  had  'no  stylo,'  unless  an  origi 
nal  and  half-foreign  quaintness  could  "be  called  so. 
There  was  a  desperate  attempt  visible  to  combine  an 
American  shawl  with  the  habits  of  a  mantilla,  and  it 
was  always  slipping  from  one  shoulder,  that  was  so 
supple  and  vivacious  as  to  betray  the  deficiencies  of  an 
education  in  stays.  There  was  a  cluster  of  black 
curls  around  her  low  forehead,  fitting  her  so  closely  as 
to  seem  to  be  a  part  of  the  seal-skin  cap  she  wore. 
Once,  from  the  force  of  habit,  she  attempted  to  put  her 
shawl  over  her  head  and  talk  through  the  folds  gath 
ered  under  her  chin,  but  an  astonished  look  from  the 
Senator  checked  her.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  relieved, 
and  rising,  motioned  her  to  a  chair  with  a  heartiness 
he  would  have  scarcely  shown  to  a  Parisian  toilleta. 
And  when,  with  two  or  three  quick,  long  steps,  she 
reached  his  side,  and  showed  a  frank,  innocent,  but 
strong  and  determined  little  face,  feminine  only  in  its 
flash  of  eye  and  beauty  of  lip  and  chin  curves,  he  put 
down  the  pamphlet  he  had  taken  up  somewhat  ostenta 
tiously,  and  gently  begged  to  know  her  business. 

I  think  I  have  once  before  spoken  of  her  voice, — 
an  organ  more  often  cultivated  by  my  fair  country 
women  for  singing  than  for  speaking,  which,  consider 
ing  that  much  of  our  practical  relations  with  the  sex 
are  carried  on  without  the  aid  of  an  opera  score,  seems 
a  mistaken  notion  of  theirs, —  and  of  its  sweetness, 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  139 

gentle  inflexion,  and  musical  emphasis.  She  had  the 
advantage  of  having  been  trained  in  a  musical  lan 
guage,  and  came  of  a  race  with  whom  catarrhs  and 
sore  throats  were  rare.  So  that  in  a  few  brief  phrases 
she  sang  the  Senator  into  acquiescence  as  she  imparted 
the  plain  libretto  of  her  business, —  namely,  a  "  desire 
to  see  some  of  his  rare  engravings." 

Now  the  engravings  in  question  were  certain  etch 
ings  of  the  early  Great  Apprentices  of  the  art,  and 
were,  I  am  happy  to  believe,  extremely  rare.  From 
my  unprofessional  view  they  were  exceedingly  bad, — 
showing  the  mere  genesis  of  something  since  perfected, 
but  dear,  of  course,  to  the  true  collector's  soul.  I 
do  n't  believe  that  Carmen  really  admired  them  either. 
But  the  minx  knew  that  the  Senator  prided  himself  on 
having  the  only  '  pot-hooks '  of  the  great  'A,'  or  the 
first  artistic  efforts  of  'B,' — I  leave  the  real  names  to 
be  filled  in  by  the  connoisseur, —  and  the  Senator 
became  interested.  For  the  last  year,  two  or  three  of 
these  abominations  had  been  hanging  in  his  study, 
utterly  ignored  by  the  casual  visitor.  But  here  was 
appreciation!  "She  was,"  she  added,  "only  a  poor 
young  artist,  unable  to  purchase  such  treasures,  but 
equally  unable  to  resist  the  opportunity  afforded  her, 
even  at  the  risk  of  seeming  bold,  or  of  obtruding  upon 
a  great  man's  privacy,"  &c.  &c. 

This  flattery,  which,  if  offered  in  the  usual  legal 


140  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

tender  of  the  country,  would  have  been  looked  upon  as 
counterfeit,  delivered  here  in  a  foreign  accent,  with  a 
slightly  tropical  warmth,  was  accepted  by  the  Senator 
as  genuine.  These  children  of  the  Sun  are  so  impul 
sive  !  We,  of  course,  feel  a  little  pity  for  the  person 
who  thus  transcends  our  standard  of  good  taste  and 
violates  our  conventional  canon, —  but  they  are  always 
sincere.  The  cold  New  Englander  saw  nothing  wrong 
in  one  or  two  direct  and  extravagant  compliments, 
that  would  have  insured  his  visitor's  early  dismissal 
if  tendered  in  the  clipped  metallic  phrases  of  the  Com 
monwealth  he  represented. 

So  that  in  a  few  moments  the  black,  curly  head  of 
the  little  artist  and  the  white,  flowing  locks  of  the 
Senator  were  close  together  bending  over  the  rack 
that  contained  the  engravings.  It  was  then  that  Car 
men,  listening  to  a  graphic  description  of  the  early 
rise  of  Art  in  the  Netherlands,  forgot  herself  and  put 
her  shawl  around  her  head,  holding  its  folds  in  her 
little  brown  hand.  In  this  situation  they  were,  at  dif 
ferent  times  during  the  next  two  hours,  interrupted 
by  five  Congressmen,  three  Senators,  a  Cabinet  officer, 
and  a  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Bench, —  each  of  whom 
was  quickly  but  courteously  dismissed.  Popular  sen 
timent,  however,  broke  out  in  the  hall. 

"Well,  I'm  blanked,  but  this  gets  me."  (The 
speaker  was  a  Territorial  delegate.) 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  141 

"At  liis  time  o'  life,  too,  lookin'  over  pictures  with 
a  gal  young  enough  to  be  his  grandchild."  (This 
from  a  venerable  official,  since  suspected  of  various 
erotic  irregularities.) 

"  She  do  n't  handsome  any."  (The  honorable  mem 
ber  from  Dakota.) 

"  This  accounts  for  his  protracted  silence  during 
the  sessions."  (A  serious  colleague  from  the  Senator's 
own  State.) 

"  Oh,  blank  it  all !  "     (  Omncs.) 

Four  went  home  to  tell  their  wives.  There  are 
few  things  more  touching  in  the  matrimonial  compact 
than  the  superb  frankness  with  which  each  confides 
to  each  the  various  irregularities  of  their  friends.  It 
is  upon  these  sacred  confidences  that  the  firm  founda 
tions  of  marriage  rest  unshaken. 

Of  course  the  objects  of  this  comment,  at  least  one 
of  them,  were  quite  oblivious.  "I  trust,"  said  Car 
men,  timidly,  when  they  had  for  the  fourth  time  re 
garded  in  rapt  admiration  an  abominable  something 
by  some  Dutch  wood-chopper,  "  I  trust  I  am  not  keep 
ing  you  from  your  great  friends:" — her  pretty  eyelids 
were  cast  down  in  tremulous  distress :  —  "I  should 
never  forgive  myself.  Perhaps  it  is  important  busi 
ness  of  the  State  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  They  will  come  again,—  it 's  their 
business." 


142  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

The  Senator  meant  it  kindly.  It  was  as  near  the 
perilous  edge  of  a  compliment  as  your  average  culti 
vated  Boston  man  ever  ventures,  and  Carmen  picked 
it  up,  femininely,  by  its  sentimental  end.  "And  I 
suppose  I  shall  not  trouble  you  again  ?  " 

"  I  shall  always  be  proud  to  place  the  portfolio  at 
your  disposal.  Command  me  at  any  time,"  said  the 
Senator,  with  dignity. 

"  You  are  kind.  You  are  good,"  said  Carmen,  "  and 
I  —  I  am  but,  —  look  you, —  only  a  poor  girl  from  Cal 
ifornia,  that  you  know  not." 

"Pardon  me,  I  know  your  country  well."  And 
indeed  he  could  have  told  her  the  exact  number  of 
bushels  of  wheat  to  the  acre  in  her  own  county  of 
Monterey,  its  voting  population,  its  political  bias.  Yot 
of  the  more  important  product  before  him,  after  the 
manner  of  book-read  men,  he  knew  nothing. 

Carmen  was  astonished,  but  respectful.  It  trans 
pired  presently  that  she  was  not  aware  of  the  rapid 
growth  of  the  silk  worm  in  her  own  district,  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  Chinese  question,  and  very  little  of  the 
American  mining  laws.  Upon  these  questions  the 
Senator  enlightened  her  fully.  "Your  name  is  his 
toric,  by  the  way,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "  There  was  a 
Knight  of  Alcantara,  a  '  de  Haro,'  one  of  the  emigrants 
with  Las  Casas." 

Carmen  nodded  her  head  quickly,  "  Yes;  my  great- 
great-great-g-r-e-a-t  grandfather ! " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  143 

The  Senator  stared. 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  am  the  niece  of  Victor  Castro,  who 
married  my  father's  sister." 

"The  Victor  Castro  of  the  'Blue  Mass'  mine?' 
asked  the  Senator  abruptly. 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly. 

Had  the  Senator  been  of  the  Gashwilcr  type,  he 
would  have  expressed  himself,  after  the  average  mas 
culine  fashion,  by  a  long-drawn  whistle.  But  his 
only  perceptible  appreciation  of  a  sudden  astonishment 
and  suspicion  in  his  mind  was  a  lowering  of  the  social 
thermometer  of  the  room  so  decided  that  poor  Carmen 
looked  up  innocently,  chilled,  and  drew  her  shawl 
closer  around  her  shoulders. 

"I  have  something  more  to  ask,"  said  Carmen, 
hanging  her  head,  -  "  it  is  a  great,  oh,  a  very  great 
favor." 

The  Senator  had  retreated  behind  his  bastion  of 
books  again,  and  was  visibly  preparing  for  an  assault. 
He  saw  it  ali  now.  He  had  been,  in  some  vague 
way,  deluded.  He  had  given  confidential  audience 
to  the  niece  of  one  of  the  Great  Claimants  before  Con 
gress.  The  inevitable  axe  had  come  to  the  grind 
stone.  What  might  not  this  woman  dare  ask  of  him  ? 
He  was  the  more  implacable  that  he  felt  he  had 
already  been  prepossessed  —  and  honestly  prepossessed 
—  in  her  favor.  He  was  angry  with  her  for  having 


144  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

pleased  him.  Under  the  icy  polish  of  his  manner 
there  were  certain  Puritan  callosities  caused  by  early 
straight-lacing.  He  was  not  yet  quite  free  from  his 
ancestor's  cheerful  ethics  that  Nature,  as  represented 
by  an  Impulse,  was  as  much  to  be  restrained  as  Order 
represented  by  a  Quaker. 

"Without  apparently  noticing  his  manner,  Carmen 
went  on,  with  a  certain  potential  freedom  of  style, 
gesture,  and  manner  scarcely  to  be  indicated  in  her 
mere  words.  "You  know,  then,  I  am  of  Spanish 
blood,  and  that,  what  was  my  adopted  country,  our 
motto  was,  'God  and  Liberty.'  It  was  of  you,  sir, — 
the  great  Emancipator,  — the  apostle  of  that  Liberty, 
—  the  friend  of  the  down-trodden  and  oppressed, — 
that  I,  as  a  child,  first  knew.  In  the  histories  of  this 
great  country  I  have  read  of  you,  I  have  learned  your 
orations.  I  have  longed  to  hear  you  in  your  own  pul 
pit  deliver  the  creed  of  my  ancestors.  To  hear  you, 
of  yourself,  speak,  ah !  Madre  de  Dios !  what  shall  I 
say, —  speak  the  oration  eloquent, —  to  make  the  — 
what  you  call  —  the  debate,  that  is  what  I  have  for 
so  long  hoped.  Eh!  Pardon, —  you  are  thinking 
me  foolish, — wild,  eh? — a  small  child, — eh?" 

Becoming  more  and  more  dialectical  as  she  went 
on,  she  said  suddenly,  "  I  have  you  of  myself  offended. 
You  are  mad  of  me  as  a  bold,  bad  child?  It  is  so?" 

The  Senator,   as  visibly  becoming  limp  and  weak 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  145 

again  behind  Ms  entrenchments,  managed  to  say, 
"  Oh,  no !  "  then,  "  really !  "  and  finally,  "  Tha-a-nks  ! " 

"  I  am  here  but  for  a  day.  I  return  to  California 
in  a  day,  as  it  were  tomorrow.  I  shall  never,  never 
hear  you  speak  in  your  place  in  the  Capitol  of  this 
great  country?" 

The  Senator  said  hastily  that  he  feared  —  he  in  fact 
was  convinced  —  that  his  duty  during  this  session  was 
required  more  at  his  desk,  in  the  committee  work, 
than  in  speaking,  &c.  &c. 

"Ah,"  said  Carmen  sadly,  "it  is  true,  then,  all 
this  that  I  have  heard.  It  is  true  that  what  they  have 
told  me, — 'that  you  have  given  up  the  great  party, — • 
that  your  voice  is  not  longer  heard  in  the  old  — what 
you  call  this  —  eh  —  the  old  issues  ?  " 

"If  any  one  has  told  you  that,  Miss  De  Haro,  re 
sponded  the  Senator  sharply,  "  he  has  spoken  foolishly. 
You  have  been  misinformed.  May  I  ask  who " 

"Ah!"  said  Carmen,  "I  know  not!  It  is  in  the 
air !  I  am  a  stranger.  Perhaps  I  am  de-ceived.  But 
it  is  of  all.  I  say  to  them,  When  shall  I  hear  him 
speak  ?  I  go  day  after  day  to  the  Capitol,  I  watch 
him, —  the  great  Emancipator, —  but  it  is  of  business, 
eh?  —  it  is  the  claim  of  that  one,  it  is  the  tax,  eh?  it 
is  the  impost,  it  is  the  post-office,  but  it  is  the  great 
speech  of  human  rights  —  never,  NEVER.  I  say,  '  How 
arrives  all  this?'  And  some  say,  and  shake  their 
10 


146  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

heads,  '  never  again  he  speaks.'  He  is  what  you  call 
'  played  —  yes,  it  is  so,  eh  ?  —  played  out.'  I  know  it 
not, —  it  is  a  word  from  Bos-ton,  perhaps  ?  They  say 
he  has  —  eh,  I  speak  not  the  English  well — the  party 
he  has  shaken,  'shook,' — yes, —  he  has  the  party 
'shaken,'  eh?  It  is  right, —  it  is  the  language  of 
Bos-ton,  eh?" 

"  Permit  me  '  to  say,  Miss  De  Haro,"  returned 
the  Senator,  rising  with  some  asperity,  "that  you 
seem  to  have  been  unfortunate  in  your  selection  of 
acquaintances,  and  still  more  so  in  your  ideas  of  the 
derivations  of  the  English  tongue.  The — er  —  the 
—  er  —  expressions  you  have  quoted  are  not  common 
to  Boston,  but  emanate,  I  believe,  from  the  West." 

Carmen  De  Haro  contritely  buried  everything  but 
her  black  eyes  in  her  shawl. 

"  No  one,"  he  continued,  more  gently,  sitting  down 
again,  "  has  the  right  to  forecast  from  my  past  what  I 
intend  to  do  in  the  future,  or  designate  the  means  I 
may  choose  to  serve  the  principles  I  hold  or  the  Party 
I  represent.  Those  are  my  functions.  At  the  same 
time,  should  occasion  —  or  opportunity  —  for  we  are 
within  a  day  or  two  of  the  close  of  the  Session ' 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Carmen,  sadly,  "I  see, —  it 
will  be  some  business,  some  claim,  something  for  some 
body, —  ah!  Madre  de  Dios, —  you  will  not  speak, 
and  I " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  147 

"When  do  you  think  of  returning?"  asked  the 
Senator,  with  grave  politeness;  "when  are  we  to  lose 
you?" 

"I  shall  stay  to  the  last, —  to  the  end  of  the  Ses 
sion,"  said  Carmen.  "And.  now  I  shall  go."  She 
got  up  and  pulled  her  shawl  viciously  over  her  shoul 
ders,  with  a  pretty  pettishness,  perhaps  the  most  fem 
inine  thing  she  had  done  that  evening.  Possibly,  the 
most  genuine. 

The  Senator  smiled  affably :  "  You  do  not  deserve 
to  be  disappointed  in  either  case ;  but  it  is  later  than 
you  imagine;  let  me  help  you  on  the  shorter  distance 
in  my  carriage ;  it  is  at  the  door." 

He  accompanied  her  gravely  to  the  carnage.  As 
it  rolled  away,  she  buried  her  little  figure  in  its  ample 
cushions  and  chuckled  to  herself,  albeit  a  little  hys 
terically.  When  she  had  reached  her  destination,  she 
found  herself  crying,  and  hastily,  and  somewhat  an 
grily,  dried  her  eyes  as  she  drew  up  at  the  door  of  her 
lodgings. 

"How  have  you  prospered?"  asked  Mr.  Harlowe, 
of  counsel  for  lloyal  Thatcher,  as  he  gallantly  assisted 
her  from  the  carriage.  "  I  have  been  waiting  here  for 
two  hours ;  your  interview  must  have  been  prolonged, 
—  that  was  a  good  sign." 

"  Do  n't  ask  me  now,"  said  Carmen,  a  little  sav 
agely,  "I  'm  worn  out  and  tired." 


148  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

Mr.  Harlowe  bowed.  "  I  trust  you  will  be  better 
tomorrow,  for  we  expect  our  friend,  Mr.  Thatcher." 

Carmen's  brown  cheek  flushed  slightly.  "  He  should 
have  been  here  before.  Where  is  he  ?  What  was  he 
doing?" 

"  He  was  snowed  up  on  the  plains.  He  is  coming 
as  fast  as  steam  can  carry  him;  but  he  may  be  too 
late." 

Carmen  did  not  reply. 

The  lawyer  lingered.  "  How  did  you  find  the  great 
New-England  Senator  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  slight  pro 
fessional  levity. 

Carmen  was  tired,  Carmen  was  worried,  Carmen 
was  a  little  self-reproachful,  and  she  kindled  easily. 
Consequently  she  said  icily : 

"  I  found  him  a  gentleman  !  " 


CHAPTER  XY. 

HOW    IT    BECAME    UNFINISHED    BUSINESS. 

The  closing  of  the Congress  was  not  unlike 

the  closing  of  the  several  preceding  Congresses.  There 
was  the  same  unbusiness-like,  impractical  haste;  the 
same  hurried,  unjust,  and  utterly  inadequate  adjust 
ment  of  unfinished,  ill-digested  business,  that  would 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  149 

not  have  been  tolerated  for  a  moment  by  the  sovereign 
people  in  any  private  interest  they  controlled.  There 
were  frauds  rushed  through ;  there  were  long-suffering, 
righteous  demands  shelved ;  there  were  honest,  unpaid 
debts  dishonored  by  scant  appropriations ;  there  were 
closing  scenes  which  only  the  saving  sense  of  American 
humor  kept  from  being  utterly  vile.  The  actors,  the 
legislators  themselves,  knew  it,  and  laughed  at  it ;  the 
commentators,  the  Press,  knew  it  and  laughed  at  it; 
the  audience,  the  great  American  people,  knew  it  and 
laughed  at  it.  And  nobody  for  an  instant  conceived 
that  it  ever,  under  any  circumstances,  might  be  other 
wise. 

The  claim  of  Roscommon  was  among  the  Unfinished 
Business.  The  claimant  himself,  haggard,  pathetic, 
importunate,  and  obstinate,  was  among  the  Unfinished 
Business.  Various  Congressmen,  more  or  less  inter 
ested  in  the  success  of  the  claim,  were  among  the  Un 
finished  Business.  The  member  from  Fresno,  who  had 
changed  his  derringer  for  a  speech  against  the  claim 
ant,  was  among  the  Unfinished  Business.  The  gifted 
Gashwiler,  uneasy  in  his  soul  over  certain  other  Un 
finished  Business  in  the  shape  of  his  missing  letters, 
but  dropping  oil  and  honey  as  he  mingled  with  his 
brothers,  was  King  of  Misrule  and  Lord  of  the  Unfin 
ished  Business.  Pretty  Mrs.  Hopkinson,  prudently 
escorted  by  her  husband,  but  imprudently  ogled  by 


150  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

admiring  Congressmen,  lent  the  charm  of  her  presence 
to  the  finishing  of  Unfinished  Business.  One  or  two 
editors,  who  had  dreams  of  a  finished  financial  business, 
arising  out  of  Unfinished  Business,  were  there  also, 
like  ansient  bards,  to  record  with  poean  or  threnody 
the  completion  of  Unfinished  Business.  Various  un 
clean  birds,  scenting  carrion  in  Unfinished  Business, 
hovered  in  the  halls  or  roosted  in  the  Lobby. 

The  lower  house,  under  the  tutelage  of  the  gifted 
Gashwiler,  drank  deeply  of  Roscommon  and  his  intoxi 
cating  claim,  and  passed  the  half-empty  bottle  to  the 
Senate  as  Unfinished  Business.  But,  alas  !  in  the 
very  rush,  and  storm,  and  tempest  of  the  unfinishing 
business,  an  unlooked-for  interruption  arose  in  the 
person  of  a  great  Senator  whose  power  none  could 
oppose,  whose  right  to  free  and  extended  utterance  at 
all  times  none  could  gainsay.  A  claim  for  poultry, 
violently  seized  by  the  army  of  Sherman  during  his 
march  through  Georgia,  from  the  hen-coop  of  an 
alleged  loyal  Irishman,  opened  a  constitutional  ques 
tion,  and  with  it  the  lips  of  the  great  Senator. 

For  seven  hours  he  spoke  eloquently,  earnestly, 
convincingly.  For  seven  hours  the  old  issues  of  party 
and  policy  were  severally  taken  up  and  dismissed  in 
the  old  forcible  rhetoric  that  had  early  made  him 
famous.  Interruptions  from  other  Senators,  now  for 
getful  of  Unfinished  Business,  and  wild  with  reani- 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  151 

mated  party  zeal;  interruptions  from  certain  Senators 
mindful  of  Unfinished  Business,  and  unable  to  pass 
the  Roscommon  bottle,  only  spurred  him  to  fresh  exer 
tion.  The  tocsin  sounded  in  the  Senate  was  heard  in 
the  lower  house.  Highly-excited  members  congregated 
at  the  doors  of  the  Senate,  and  left  Unfinished  Busi 
ness  to  take  care  of  itself. 

Left  to  itself  for  seven  hours,  Unfinished  Business 
gnashed  its  false  teeth  and  tore  its  wig  in  impotent 
fury  in  corridor  and  hall.  For  seven  hours  the  gifted 
Gashwiler  had  continued  the  manufacture  of  oil  and 
honey,  whose  sweetness,  however,  was  slowly  palling 
upon  the  congressional  lip ;  for  seven  hours  Roscom 
mon  and  friends  beat  with  impatient  feet  the  lobby, 
and  shook  fists,  more  or  less  discolored,  at  the  distin 
guished  Senator.  For  seven  hours  the  one  or  two 
editors  were  obliged  to  sit  and  calmly  compliment  the 
great  speech  which  that  night  flashed  over  the  wires  of 
a  continent  with  the  old  electric  thrill.  And,  worse 
than  all,  they  were  obliged  to  record  with  it  the  closing 

of  the  Congress,  with  more  than  the  usual 

amount  of  Unfinished  Business. 

A  little  group  of  friends  surrounded  the  great 
Senator  with  hymns  of  praise  and  congratulations. 
Old  adversaries  saluted  him  courteously  as  they  passed 
by  with  the  respect  of  strong  men.  A  little  woman 
with  a  shawl  drawn  over  her  shoulders,  and  held  with 
one  small  brown  hand,  approached  him  timidly : 


152  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"I  speak  not  the  English  well,"  she  said  gently, 
"  but  I  have  read  much.  I  have  read  in  the  plays  of 
your  Shakspeare.  I  would  like  to  say  to  you  the 
words  of  Rosalind  to  Orlando  when  he  did  fight :  '  Sir 
you  have  wrestled  well,  and  have  overthrown  more 
than  your  enemies.'"  And  with  these  words  she  was 
gone. 

Yet  not  so  quickly  but  that  pretty  Mrs.  Hopkinson, 
coming, —  as  Victrix  always  comes  to  Victor,  to  thank 
the  great  Senator,  albeit  the  faces  of  her  escorts  were 
shrouded  in  gloom, —  saw  the  shawled  figure  disappear. 

"  There,"  she  said,  pinching  Wiles  mischievously, 
"  there !  that 's  the  woman  you  were  afraid  of.  Look 
at  her.  Look  at  that  dress.  Ah,  Heavens !  look  at 
that  shawl.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  she  had  no  style  ?  " 

"Who  is  she?"  said  Wiles  sullenly. 

"Carmen  de  Haro,  of  course,"  said  the  lady  viva 
ciously.  "What  are  you  hurrying  away  so  for? 
You  're  absolutely  pulling  me  along." 

Mr.  Wiles  had  just  caught  sight  of  the  travel-worn 
face  of  Royal  Thatcher  among  the  crowd  that  thronged 
the  stair-case.  Thatcher  appeared  pale  and  distrait: 
Mr.  Harlowe,  his  counsel,  at  his  side,  rallied  him. 

"  No  one  would  think  you  had  just  got  a  new  lease 
of  your  property,  and  escaped  a  great  swindle.  What 's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  Miss  De  Haro  passed  us  just 
now.  It  was  she  who  spoke  to  the  Senator.  Why 
did  you  not  recognize  her  ?  " 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  153 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Thatcher  gloomily. 

"  Well,  you  take  things  coolly !  And  certainly  you 
are  not  very  demonstrative  towards  the  woman  who 
saved  you  today.  For,  as  sure  as  you  live,  it  was  she 
who  drew  that  speech  out  of  the  Senator." 

Thatch ar  did  not  reply,  but  moved  away.  He  had 
noticed  Carmen  De  Haro,  and  was  about  to  greet  her 
with  mingled  pleasure  and  embarrassment.  But  he 
had  heard  her  compliment  to  the  Senator,  and  this 
strong,  pre-occupied,  automatic  man,  who  only  ten  days 
before  had  no  thought  beyond  his  property,  was  now 
thinking  more  of  that  compliment  to  another  than  of 
his  success ;  and  was  beginning  to  hate  the  Senator 
who  had  saved  him,  the  lawyer  who  stood  beside  him, 
and  even  the  little  figure  that  had  tripped  down  the 
steps  unconscious  of  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AND     WHO     FORGOT     IT. 

It  was  somewhat  inconsistent  with  Royal  Thatch 
er's  embarrassment  and  sensitiveness  that  he  should, 
on  leaving  the  Capitol,  order  a  carriage  and  drive 
directly  to  the  lodgings  of  Miss  De  Haro.  That  on 


154  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

finding  she  was  not  at  homo,  he  should  become  again 
sulky  and  suspicious,  and  even  be  ashamed  of  the  hon 
est  impulse  that  led  him  there,  was,  I  suppose,  man 
like  and  natural.  He  felt  that  he  had  done  all  that 
courtesy  required ;  he  had  promptly  answered  her  dis 
patch  with  his  presence.  If  she  chose  to  be  absent  at 
such  a  moment,  he  had  at  least  done  his  duty.  In 
short,  there  was  scarcely  any  absurdity  of  the  imagina 
tion  which  this  once  practical  man  did  not  permit  him 
self  to  indulge  in,  yet  always  with  a  certain  conscious 
ness  that  he  was  allowing  his  feelings  to  run  away 
with  him,  —  a  fact  that  did  not  tend  to  make  him 
better  humored,  and  rather  inclined  him  to  place  the 
responsibility  of  the  elopement  on  somebody  else.  If 
Miss  Do  Haro  had  been  home,  &c.  &c.,  and  not 
going  into  ecstacies  over  speeches,  &c.  &c.,  and  had 
attended  to  her  business,  -  i.  e.,  being  exactly  what 
he  had  supposed  her  to  be, —  all  this  would  not  have 
happened. 

I  am  aware  that  this  will  not  heighten  the  reader's 
respect  for  my  hero.  But  I  fancy  that  the  impercepti 
ble  progress  of  a  sincere  passion  in  the  matured  strong 
man  is  apt  to  be  marked  with  even  more  than  the 
usual  haste  and  absurdity  of  callous  youth.  The  fever 
that  runs  riot  in  the  veins  of  the  robust  is  apt  to  pass 
your  ailing  weakling  by.  Possibly  there  may  be 
some  immunity  in  inoculation.  It  is  Lothario  who 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  155 

is  always  self-possessed  and  does  and  says  the  right 
thing,  while  poor  honest  Coelebs  becomes  ridiculous 
with  genuine  emotion. 

He  rejoined  his  lawyer  in  no  very  gracious  mood. 
The  chambers  occupied  by  Mr.  Harlowe  were  in  the 
basement  of  a  private  dwelling  once  occupied  and  made 
historic  by  an  Honorable  Somebody,  who,  however,  was 
remembered  only  by  the  landlord  and  the  last  tenant. 
There  were  various  shelves  in  the  walls  divided  into 
compartments,  sarcastically  known  as  '  pigeon  holes,' 
in  which  the  dove  of  peace  had  never  rested,  but  which 
still  perpetuated,  in  their  legends,  the  feuds  and  ani 
mosities  of  suitors  now  but  common  dust  together. 
There  was  a  portrait,  apparently  of  a  cherub,  which 
on  nearer  inspection  turned  out  to  be  a  famous  Eng 
lish  Lord  Chancellor  in  his  flowing  wig.  There 
were  books  with  dreary,  unenlivening  titles, —  egotistic 
always,  as  recording  Smith's  opinions  on  this,  and 
Jones's  commentaries  on  that.  There  was  a  hand  bill 
tacked  on  the  wall,  which  at  first  offered  hilarious 
suggestions  of  a  circus  or  a  steamboat  excursion,  but 
which  turned  out  only  to  be  a  sheriff's  sale.  There 
were  several  oddly-shaped  packages  in  newspaper 
wrappings,  mysterious  and  awful  in  dark  corners,  that 
might  have  contained  forgotten  law  papers  or  the  pre 
vious  week's  washing  of  the  eminent  counsel.  There 
were  one  or  two  newspapers,  which  at  first  offered 


156  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

entertaining  prospects  to  the  waiting  client,  but  always 
proved  to  be  a  law  record  or  a  Supreme  Court  decision. 
There  was  the  bust  of  a  late  distinguished  jurist,  which 
apparently  had  never  been  dusted  since  he  himself 
became  dust,  and  had  already  grown  a  perceptibly 
dusty  moustache  on  his  severely-judicial  upper  lip. 
It  was  a  cheerless  place  in  the  sunshine  of  day;  at 
night,  when  it  ought,  by  every  suggestion  of  its  dusty 
past,  to  have  been  left  to  the  vengeful  ghosts,  the 
greater  part  of  whose  hopes  and  passions  were  recorded 
and  gathered  there;  when  in  the  dark  the  dead  hands 
of  forgotten  men  were  stretched  from  their  dusty 
graves  to  fumble  once  more  for  their  old  title  deeds; 
at  night,  when  it  was  lit  up  by  flaring  gaslight,  the 
hollow  mockery  of  this  dissipation  was  so  apparent 
that  people  in  the  streets,  looking  through  the  illumin 
ated  windows,  felt  as  if  the  privacy  of  a  family  vault 
had  been  intruded  upon  by  body-snatchers. 

Royal  Thatcher  glanced  around  the  room,  took  in 
all  its  dreary  suggestions  in  a  half-weary,  half-indif 
ferent  sort  of  way,  and  dropped  into  the  lawyer's  own 
revolving  chair  as  that  gentleman  entered  from  the 
adjacent  room. 

"Well,  you  got  back  soon,  I  see,"  said  Harlowe 
briskly. 

"  Yes,"  said  his  client,  without  looking  up,  and  with 
this  notable  distinction  between  himself  and  all  other 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  157 

previous  clients,  that  he  seemed  absolutely  less  inter 
ested  than  the  lawyer.  "Yes,  I'm  here;  and,  upon 
my  soul,  I  don't  exactly  know  why." 

"You  told  me  of  certain  papers  you  had  discov 
ered,"  said  the  lawyer  suggestively. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Thatcher  with  a  slight  yawn. 
"I've  got  here  some  papers  somewhere;" — he  began 
to  feel  in  his  coat  pocket  languidly;  —  "but,  by  the 
way,  this  is  a  rather  dreary  and  God-forsaken  sort  of 
place !  Let 's  go  up  to  Welker's,  and  you  can  look 
at  them  over  a  bottle  of  champagne." 

"After  I  've  looked  at  them,  I  've  something  to  show 
you,  myself,"  said  Harlowe;  "and  as  for  the  cham 
pagne,  we  '11  have  that  in  the  other  room,  by  and  by. 
At  present  I  want  to  have  my  head  clear,  and  yours 
too, —  if  you'll  oblige  me  by  becoming  sufficiently 
interested  in  your  own  affairs  to  talk  to  me  about 
them." 

Thatcher  was  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  fire.  He 
started.  "  I  dare  say,"  he  began,  "  I  'm  not  very  inter 
esting  ;  yet  it 's  possible  that  my  affairs  have  taken  up 
a  little  too  much  of  my  time.  However, — "  he  stopped, 
took  from  his  pocket  an  envelope,  and  threw  it  on  the 
desk, — "there  are  some  papers.  I  don't  know  what 
value  they  may  be;  that  is  for  you  to  determine.  I 
do  n't  know  that  I  've  any  legal  right  to  their  pos 
session, — that  is  for  you  to  say,  too.  They  came  to 


158  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

me  in  a  queer  way.  On  the  overland  journey  here  I 
lost  my  bag,  containing  my  few  traps  and  some  letters 
and  papers  'of  no  value,'  as  the  advertisements  say, 
'  to  any  but  the  owner.'  Well,  the  bag  was  lost,  but 
the  stage  driver  declares  that  it  was  stolen  by  a  fellow- 
passenger, —  a  man  by  the  name  of  Giles,  or  Stiles, 
or  Biles—" 

"Wiles,"  said  Harlowe  earnestly. 

"Yes,"  continued  Thatcher,  suppressing  a  yawn; 
"  Yes,  I  guess  you  're  right, —  Wiles.  Well,  the  stage 
driver,  finally  believing  this,  goes  to  work  and  quietly 
and  unostentatiously  steals — I  say,  have  you  got  a 
cigar?" 

"I'll  get  you  one." 

Harlowe  disappeared  in  the  adjoining  room .  Thatcher 
dragged  Harlowe's  heavy,  revolving  desk  chair,  which 
never  before  had  been  removed  from  its  sacred  posi 
tion,  to  the  fire,  and  began  to  poke  the  coals  abstract 
edly. 

Harlowe  reappeared  with  cigars  and  matches. 
Thatcher  lit  one  mechanically,  and  said,  between  the 
puffs: 

' '  Do  you  —  ever — talk  — to  yourself  ? ' ' 

»No!  — why?" 

"  I  thought  I  heard  your  voice  just  now  in  the  other 
room.  Anyhow,  this  is  an  awful  spooky  place.  If  I 
stayed  here  alone  half  an  hour,  I  'd  fancy  that  the  Lord 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  159 

Chancellor  up  there  would  step  down  in  his  robes,  out 
of  his  frame,  to  keep  me  company." 

"  Nonsense  !  When  I  'm  busy,  I  often  sit  here  and 
write  until  after  midnight.  It 's  so  quiet ! " 

"  D — mnably  so  !  " 

"  Well,  to  go  back  to  the  papers.  Somebody  stole 
your  bag,  or  you  lost  it.  You  stole  — 

"  The  driver  stole,"  suggested  Thatcher,  so  languidly 
that  it  could  hardly  be  called  an  interruption. 

"  Well,  we  '11  say  the  driver  stole,  and  passed  over 
to  you  as  his  accomplice,  confederate,  or  receiver,  cer 
tain  papers  belonging — " 

"See  here,  Harlowe,  I  don't  feel  like  joking  in  a 
ghostly  law  office  after  midnight.  Here  are  your  facts. 
Yuba  Bill,  the  driver,  stole  a  bag  from  this  passenger, 
Wiles,  or  Smiles,  and  handed  it  to  me  to  insure  the 
return  of  my  own.  I  found  in  it  some  papers  con 
cerning  my  case.  There  they  are.  Do  with  them 
what  you  like." 

Thatcher  turned  his  eyes  again  abstractedly  to  the 
fire. 

Harlowe  took  out  the  first  paper : 

"A-w,  this  seems  to  be  a  telegram.  Yes,  eh  ?  '  Come 
to  Washington  at  once. — Carmen  de  Haro.'  " 

Thatcher  started,  blushed  like  a  girl,  and  hurriedly 
reached  for  the  paper. 

"  Nonsense.  That 's  a  mistake.  A  dispatch  I  mis 
laid  in  the  envelope." 


160  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"I  see, "-said  the  lawyer  dryly. 

"  I  thought  I  had  torn  it  up,"  continued  Thatcher, 
after  an  awkward  pause.  I  regret  to  say  that  here 
that  usually  truthful  man  elaborated  a  fiction.  He 
had  consulted  it  a  dozen  times  a  day  on  the  journey, 
and  it  was  quite  worn  in  its  enfoldings.  Harlowe's 
quick  eye  had  noticed  this,  but  he  speedily  became  inter 
ested  and  absorbed  in  the  other  papers.  Thatcher 
lapsed  into  contemplation  of  the  fire. 

"Well,"  said  Harlowe,  finally  turning  to  his  client, 
"here's  enough  to  unseat  Gashwiler,  or  close  his 
mouth.  As  to  the  rest,  it 's  good  reading  —  but  I 
need  n't  tell  you  —  no  legal  evidence.  But  it 's  proof 
enough  to  stop  them  from  ever  trying  it  again, —  when 
the  existence  of  this  record  is  made  known.  Bribery 
is  a  hard  thing  to  fix  on  a  man;  the  only  witness  is 
naturally  particeps  criminis  ;  —  but  it  would  not  be 
easy  for  them  to  explain  away  this  rascal's  record. 
One  or  two  things  I  do  n't  understand :  What 's  this 
opposite  the  Hon.  X's  name,  'Took  the  medicine 
nicely,  and  feels  better  ? '  and  here,  just  in  the  mar 
gin,  after  Y's,  '  Must  be  labored  with  ? ' " 

"I  suppose  our  California  slang  borrows  largely 
from  the  medical  and  spiritual  profession,"  returned 
Thatcher.  "  But  is  n't  it  odd  that  a  man  should  keep 
a  conscientious  record  of  his  own  villainy?" 

Harlowe,  a  little  abashed  at  his  want  of  knowledge 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  161 

of  American  metaphor,  now  felt  himself  at  home. 
"  Well,  no.  It 's  not  unusual.  In  one  of  those  books 
yonder  there  is  the  record  of  a  case  where  a  man, 
who  had  committed  a  series  of  nameless  atrocities, 
extending  over  a  period  of  years,  absolutely  kept  a 
memorandum  of  them  in  his  pocket  diary.  It  was 
produced  in  Court.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  one  half 
our  business  arises  from  the  fact  that  men  and  women 
are  in  the  habit  of  keeping  letters  and  documents  that 
they  might  —  I  do  n't  say,  you  know,  that  they  ought, 
that 's  a  question  of  sentiment  or  ethics  —  but  that 
they  might  destroy." 

Thatcher  half-mechanically  took  the  telegram  of  poor 
Carmen  and  threw  it  in  the  fire.  Harlowe  noticed  the 
act  and  smiled. 

"I  '11  venture  to  say,  however,  that  there  's  nothing 
in  the  bag  that  you  lost  that  need  give  you  a  moment's 
uneasiness.  It 's  only  your  rascal  or  fool  who  carries 
with  him  that  which  makes  him  his  own  detective." 

"I  had  a  friend,"  continued  Harlowe,  "a  clever 
fellow  enough,  but  who  was  so  foolish  as  to  seriously 
complicate  himself  with  a  woman.  He  was  himself 
the  soul  of  honor,  and  at  the  beginning  of  their  cor 
respondence  he  proposed  that  they  should  each  return 
the  other's  letters  with  their  answer.  They  did  so  for 
years,  but  it  cost  him  ten  thousand  dollars  and  no  end . 

of  trouble  after  all." 
11 


162  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"Why?"  asked  Thatcher  simply. 

"  Because  he  was  such  an  egotistical  ass  as  to  keep 
the  letter  proposing  it,  which  she  had  duly  returned, 
among  his  papers  as  a  sentimental  record.  Of  course 
somebody  eventually  found  it." 

"  Good  night,"  said  Thatcher,  rising  abruptly,  "  If 
I  stayed  here  much  longer  I  should  begin  to  disbelieve 
my  own  mother." 

"I  have  known  of  such  hereditary  traits,"  returned 
Harlowe  with  a  laugh.  "  But  come,  you  must  not 
go  without  the  champagne."  He  led  the  way  to  the 
adjacent  room,  which  proved  to  be  only  the  ante-cham 
ber  of  another,  on  the  threshold  of  which  Thatcher 
stopped  with  genuine  surprise.  Is  was  an  elegantly 
furnished  library. 

"  Sybarite !     Why  was  I  never  here  before  ?  " 

"Because  you  came  as  a  client;  tonight  you  are 
my  guest.  All  who  enter  here  leave  their  business, 
with  their  hats,  in  the  hall.  Look  ;  there  is  n't  a  law 
book  on  those  shelves;  that  table  never  was  defaced 
by  a  title  deed  or  parchment.  You  look  puzzled? 
Well,  it  was  a  whim  of  mine  to  put  my  residence  and 
my  work-shop  under  the  same  roof,  yet  so  distinct 
that  they  would  never  interfere  with  each  other.  You 
know  the  house  above  is  let  out  to  lodgers.  I  occupy 
the  first  floor  with  my  mother  and  sister,  and  this  is  my 
parlor.  I  do  my  work  in  that  severe  room  that  fronts 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  163 

the  street :  here  is  where  I  play.  A  man  must  have 
something  else  in  life  than  mere  business.  I  find  it 
less  harmful  and  expensive  to  have  my  pleasure  here." 

Thatcher  had  sunk  moodily  in  the  embracing  arms 
of  an  easy  chair.  He  was  thinking  deeply ;  he  was 
fond  of  books  too,  and,  like  all  men  who  have  fared 
hard  and  led  wandering  lives,  he  knew  the  value  of 
cultivated  repose.  Like  all  men  who  have  been 
obliged  to  sleep  under  blankets  and  in  the  open  air, 
he  appreciated  the  luxuries  of  linen  sheets  and  a  fres 
coed  roof.  It  is,  by  the  way,  only  your  sick  city 
clerk  or  your  dyspeptic  clergyman,  who  fancy  that  they 
have  found  in  the  bad  bread,  fried  steaks,  and  frowzy 
flannels  of  mountain  picknicking  the  true  art  of  liv 
ing.  And  it  is  a  somewhat  notable  fact  that  your 
true  mountaineer  or  your  gentleman  who  has  been 
obliged  to  honestly  '  rough  it,'  does  not,  as  a  general 
thing,  write  books  about  its  advantages,  or  implore 
their  fellow  mortals  to  come  and  share  their  solitude 
and  their  discomforts. 

Thoroughly  appreciating  the  taste  and  comfort  of 
Harlowe's  library,  yet  half-envious  of  its  owner,  and 
half-suspicious  that  his  own  earnest  life  for  the  past 
few  years  might  have  been  different,  Thatcher  sud 
denly  started  from  his  seat  and  walked  towards  a  par 
lor  easel,  whereon  stood  a  picture.  It  was  Carmen 
de  Haro's  first  sketch  of  the  furnace  and  the  mine. 


164  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"I  see  you  are  taken  with  that  picture,"  said  Har- 
lowe,  pausing  with  the  champagne  bottle  in  his  hand. 
"  You  show  your  good  taste.  It 's  been  much  admired. 
Observe  how  splendidly  that  fire  light  plays  over  the 
sleeping  face  of  that  figure,  yet  brings  out  by  very 
contrast  its  almost  death-like  repose.  Those  rocks 
are  powerfully  handled ;  what  a  suggestion  of  mystery 
in  those  shadows?  You  know  the  painter?" 

Thatcher  murmured,  "  Miss  De  Haro,"  with  a  new 
and  rather  odd  self-consciousness  in  speaking  her 
name. 

"  Yes.  And  you  know  the  story  of  the  picture  of 
course?" 

Thatcher  thought  he  did  n't.  Well,  no ;  in  fact,  he 
did  not  remember. 

"Why,  this  recumbent  figure  was  an  old  Spanish 
lover  of  hers,  whom  she  believed  to  have  been  mur 
dered  there.  It 's  a  ghastly  fancy,  is  n't  it?  " 

Two  things  annoyed  Thatcher :  first  the  epithet 
*  lover,'  as  applied  to  Concho  by  another  man ;  second, 
that  the  picture  belonged  to  him  :  and  what  the  d — 1 
did  she  mean  by 

"Yes,"  he  broke  out  finally,  "but  how  did  you  get 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I  bought  it  of  her.  I  Ve  been  a  sort  of  pat 
ron  of  her  ever  since  I  found  out  how  she  stood  towards 
us.  As  she  was  quite  alone  here  in  Washington,  my 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  165 

mother  and  sister  have  taken  her  up,  and  have  been 
doing  the  social  thing." 

"  How  long  since  ?  "  asked  Thatcher. 

"  Oh,  not  long.  The  day  she  telegraphed  you,  she 
came  here  to  know  what  she  could  do  for  us,  and  when 
I  said  nothing  could  be  done  except  to  keep  Congress 
off,  why,  she  went  and  did  it.  For  she,  and  she  alone, 
got  that  speech  out  of  the  Senator.  But,"  he  added, 
a  little  mischievously,  "you  seem  to  know  very  little 
about  her?" 

"  No  !  —  I- — that  is —  I  Ve  been  very  busy  lately," 
returned  Thatcher,  staring  at  the  picture.  "  Does  she 
come  here  often?" 

"  Yes,  lately,  quite  often ;  she  was  here  this  evening 
with  mother;  was  here,  I  think,  when  you  came." 

Thatcher  looked  intently  at  Harlowe.  But  that  gen 
tleman's  face  betrayed  no  confusion.  Thatcher  refilled 
his  glass  a  little  awkwardly,  tossed  off  the  liquor  at  a 
draught,  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Come,  old  fellow,  you  're  not  going  now.  I  shan't 
permit  it,"  said  Harlowe,  laying  his  hand  kindly  on 
his  client's  shoulder.  "You're  out  of  sorts!  Stay 
here  with  me  tonight.  Our  accommodations  are  not 
large,  but  are  elastic.  I  can  bestow  you  comfortably 
until  morning.  Wait  here  a  moment  while  I  give  the 
necessary  orders." 

Thatcher  was  not  sorry  to  be  left  alone.     In  the 


166  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

last  half  hour  he  had  become  convinced  that  his  love 
for  Carmen  de  Haro  had  been  in  some  way  most  dread 
fully  abused.  While  he  was  hard  at  work  in  Califor 
nia,  she  was  being  introduced  in  Washington  society 
by  parties  with  eligible  brothers  who  bought  her  paint 
ings.  It  is  a  relief  to  the  truly  jealous  mind  to  indulge 
in  plurals.  Thatcher  liked  to  think  that  she  was  already 
beset  by  hundreds  of  brothers. 

lie  still  kept  staring  at  the  picture.  By  and  by  it 
faded  away  in  part,  and  a  very  vivid  recollection  of 
the  misty,  midnight,  moonlit  walk  he  had  once  taken 
with  her  came  back,  and  refilled  the  canvass  with  its 
magic.  He  saw  the  ruined  furnace ;  the  dark,  over 
hanging  masses  of  rock,  the  trembling  intricacies  of 
foliage,  and,  above  all,  the  flash  of  dark  eyes  under  a 
mantilla  at  his  shoulder.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  ! 
Had  he  not  really  been  as  senseless  and  stupid  as  this 
very  Concho,  lying  here  like  a  log.  And  she  had 
loved  that  man.  What  a  fool  she  must  have  thought 
him  that  evening!  What  a  snob  she  must  think  him 
now? 

He  was  startled  by  a  slight  rustling  in  the  passage, 
that  ceased  almost  as  he  turned.  Thatcher  looked 
towards  the  door  of  the  outer  office,  as  if  half  expect 
ing  that  the  Lord  Chancellor,  like  the  commander  in 
Don  Juan,  might  have  accepted  his  thoughtless  invita 
tion.  He  listened  again;  everything  was  still.  He 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  1G7 

was  conscious  of  feeling  ill  at  ease  and  a  trifle  nervous. 
What  a  long  time  Harlowe  took  to  make  his  prepara 
tions.  He  would  look  out  in  the  hall.  To  do  this  it 
was  necessary  to  turn  up  the  gas.  He  did  so,  and  in 
his  confusion  turned  it  out ! 

Where  were  the  matches?  He  remembered  that 
there  was  a  bronze  something  on  the  table  that,  in  the 
irony  of  modern  decorative  taste,  might  hold  ashes  or 
matches,  or  anything  of  an  unpicturesque  character. 
He  knocked  something  over,  evidently  the  ink, —  some 
thing  else, —  this  time  a  champagne  glass.  Becoming 
reckless,  and  now  groping  at  random  in  the  ruins,  he 
overturned  the  bronze  Mercury  on  the  center  table,  and 
then  sat  down  hopelessly  in  his  chair.  And  then  a 
pair  of  velvet  fingers  slid  into  his,  with  the  matches, 
and  this  audible,  musical  statement : 

"  It  is  a  match  you  are  seeking  ?     Here  is  of  them." 

Thatcher  flushed,  embarrassed,  nervous, — feeling 
the  ridiculousness  of  saying  "  Thank  you  "  to  a  dark 
somebody, —  struck  the  match,  beheld  by  its  brief, 
uncertain  glimmer  Carmen  de  Haro  beside  him,  burned 
his  fingers,  coughed,  dropped  the  match,  and  was  cast 
again  into  outer  darkness. 

"Let  me  try!" 

Carmen  struck  a  match,  jumped  briskly  on  the  chair, 
lit  the  gas,  jumped  lightly  down  again,  and  said: 
"You  do  like  to  sit  in  the  dark, —  eh?  So  am  I  — 
sometimes  —  alone." 


168  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  Miss  de  Ilaro,"  said  Thatcher,  with  sudden,  hon 
est  earnestness,  advancing  with  outstretched  hands, 
"  believe  me  I  am  sincerely  delighted,  overjoyed,  again 
to  meet — " 

She  had,  however,  quickly  retreated  as  he  ap 
proached,  esconcing  herself  behind  the  high  back  of 
a  large  antique  chair,  on  the  cushion  of  which  she 
knelt.  I  regret  to  add  also  that  she  slapped  his  out 
stretched  fingers  a  little  sharply  with  her  inevitable 
black  fan  as  he  still  advanced. 

"  We  are  not  in  California.     It  is  Washington.     It 

o 

is  after  mid-night.  I  am  a  poor  girl,  and  I  have  to 
lose — what  you  call— 'a  character'  You  shall  sit 
over  there,"  — she  pointed  to  the  sofa, — "  and  I  shall 
sit  here ; "  she  rested  her  boyish  head  on  the  top  of 
the  chair;  "and  we  shall  talk,  for  I  have  to  speak  to 
you,  Don  Royal." 

Thatcher  took  the  seat  indicated,  contritely,  hum 
bly,  submissively.  Carmen's  little  heart  was  touched. 
But  she  still  went  on  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Don  Royal,"  she  said,  emphasizing  each  word  at 
him  with  her  fan,  "before  I  saw  you, —  ever  knew  of 
you, —  I  was  a  child.  Yes,  I  was  "but  a  child !  I  was 
a  bold,  bad  child ;  —  and  I  was  what  you  call  a  —  a  — 
'  forgaire  ' ! " 

"A  what?"  asked  Thatcher,  hesitating  between  a 
smile  and  a  sigh. 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  169 

"  A  forgaire!  "  continued  Carmen  demurely.  "I 
did  of  myself  write  the  names  of  ozzer  peoples;" 
when  Carmen  was  excited  she  lost  the  control  of  the 
English  tongue;  "I  did  write  just  to  please  myself; 

—  it  was  my  onkle  that  did  make  of  it  money ;  —  you 
understand,  eh  ?     Shall  you  not  speak  ?     Must  I  again 
hit  you?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Thatcher  laughing. 

"I  did  find  out,  when  I  came  to  you  at  the  mine, 
that  I  had  forged  against  you  the  name  of  Michelto- 
rena.  I  to  the  lawyer  went,  and  found  that  it  was  so 

—  of  a  verity  —  so !  so !  all  the  time.    Look  at  me  not 
now,  Don  Royal ;  — it  is  a  '  forgaire '  you  stare  at." 

"  Carmen ! " 

"Hoosh!  Shall  I  have  to  hit  you  again?  I  did 
overlook  all  the  papers.  I  found  the  application :  it 
was  written  by  me.  There." 

She  tossed  over  the  back  of  her  chair  an  envelope 
to  Thatcher.  He  opened  it. 

"I  see,"  he  said  gently,  "you  repossessed  yourself 
of  it!" 

"  What  is  that  — '  r-r-r-e  —  possess '  ?  " 

"Why!" — Thatcher  hesitated — "  you  got  possession 
of  this  paper, —  this  innocent  forgery, —  again." 

"  Oh !  You  think  me  a  thief  as  well  as  a  *  forgaire.' 
Go  away !  Get  up.  Get  out." 

"  My  dear  girl " 


170  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  Look  at  the  paper !    Will  you  ?     Oh,  you  silly ! " 

Thatcher  looked  at  the  paper.  In  paper,  hand 
writing,  age,  and  stamp  it  was  identical  with  the 
formal,  clerical  application  of  Garcia  for  the  grant. 
The  indorsement  of  Micheltorena  was  unquestionably 
genuine.  But  the  application  was  made  for  Royal 
Thatcher.  And  his  own  signature  was  imitated  to  the 
life. 

"  I  had  but  one  letter  of  yours  wiz  your  name,"  said 
Carmen  apologetically;  "and  it  was  the  best  poor  me 
could  do." 

"Why,  you  blessed  little  goose  and  angel,"  said 
Thatcher,  with  the  bold,  mixed  metaphor  of  amatory 
genius,  "do  n't  you  see " 

"  Ah,  you  do  n't  like  it, —  it  is  not  good  ?  " 

"  My  darling  !  " 

"  Hoosh !  There  is  also  an  '  old  cat '  up  stairs.  And 
now  I  have  here  a  character.  Will  you  sit  down  ? 
Is  it  of  a  necessity  that  up  and  down  you  should  walk 
and  awaken  the  whole  house?  There!"  —  she  had 
given  him  a  vicious  dab  with  her  fan  as  he  passed. 
He  sat  down. 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  me  nor  written  to  me  for 
a  year?" 

"Carmen!" 

"  Sit  down,  you  bold,  bad  boy.  Do  n't  you  see  it  is 
of  business  that  you  and  I  talk  down  here ;  and  tt  is 


The  Story  of  a  Mine.  171 

of  business  that  ozzer  people  up  stairs  are  thinking. 
Eh?" 

"  D — n  business  !  See  here,  Carmen,  my  darling, 
tell  me"  —  I  regret  to  say  he  had  by  this  time  got  hold 
of  the  back  of  Carmen's  chair — "tell  me,  my  own 
little  girl, —  about  —  about  that  Senator.  You  remem 
ber  what  you  said  to  him  'I " 

"  Oh,  the  old  man?  Oh,  that  was  business.  And 
you  say  of  business,  ' d  —  n.'" 

"Carmen!" 

"  Don  Royal !  " 

***** 

Although  Miss  Carmen  had  recourse  to  her  fan  fre 
quently  during  this  interview,  the  air  must  have  been 
chilly,  for  a  moment  later,  on  his  way  down  stairs,  poor 
Harlowe,  a  sufferer  from  bronchitis,  was  attacked  with 
a  violent  fit  of  coughing,  which  troubled  him  all  the 
way  down. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  room,  "  I  see  you 
have  found  Mr.  Thatcher,  and  shown  those  papers.  I 
trust  you  have,  for  you  *ve  certainly  had  time  enough. 
I  am  sent  by  mother  to  dismiss  you  all  to  bed." 

Carmen  still  in  the  arm  chair,  covered  with  her 
mantilla,  did  not  speak. 

"I  suppose  you  are  by  this  time  lawyer  enough  to 
know,"  continued  Harlowe,  "that  Miss  De  Haro's 
papers,  though  ingenious,  are  not  legally  available, 


172  The  Story  of  a  Mine. 

"  I  chose  to  make  her  a  witness.  Harlowe !  you  're 
a  good  fellow  !  I  do  n't  mind  saying  to  you  that  these 
arc  papers  I  prefer  that  my  wife  should  not  use. 
We  '11  leave  it  for  the  present  —  Unfinished  Business." 

They  did.  But  one  evening  our  hero  brought  Mrs. 
Royal  Thatcher  a  paper  containing  a  touching  and 
beautiful  tribute  to  the  dead  Senator. 

"  There,  Carmen,  love,  read  that.  Do  n't  you  feel 
a  little  ashamed  of  your  —  your  —  your  lobbying  —  " 

"No,"  said  Carmen  promptly.  "It was  business, — 
and  if  all  lobbying  business  was  as  honest, — well  ? — " 


S  77 

) 


